


Crossfire (2.0)

by JadedPandaGirl



Series: Panda's Expanded Devil May Cry [3]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Action, Adventure, Demons, Gen, Horror, Other, Suspence, Trauma, Violence, Witches, death by fire, fanfic rewrite, part of fanfic-verse, possible trigger warning for abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedPandaGirl/pseuds/JadedPandaGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been years since Dante killed his brother. More so since he lost a dear friend. Now a photo has brought those old ghosts to haunt him. The trap is baited with something he can't resist. There are powers involved that he doesn't understand. What starts as an investigation may end up as something different and all too familiar. [[COMPLETED]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crossfire 1.0](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/228310) by JadedPanda. 



> A sequel to my fanfic [Frail Equilibrium](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3909259/2/Frail-Equilibrium) which kind of starts my headcanon-verse. The rest of my fanfics happen after this one. It's a second version because I was never quite pleased with the original. 
> 
> I would like to thank CB for his editorial help and AB, CS, R and Jak for their help with editing, proof-reading and idea-bouncing. 
> 
> The fic is completed and I’ll be trying to keep to a weekly update schedule every weekend.

_"A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know."_ \- Diane Arbus

A cold November evening found Dante snoozing in his chair inside his office. One of those evenings when the temperature dropped below zero and the lack of moisture in the air made the wind bite like a razor. The long spat of murky skies and heavy, depressing clouds had begun to reflect on the city below. Irritation and apathy trickled through the streets like a restless poison. Petty crimes and dull witnesses grew more and more with every passing day.

The mounting tension sent ripples through the denizens of the Underworld as well. Here and there, a few foolish strays reared their head like wolves lifting their noses at the scent of fresh meat. This was no curse in Dante’s opinion; he was lazy and didn’t care to bother with every little small fry, but getting off his butt once in a while and mopping up the vermin was fun. And sometimes the jobs paid, too! He even had enough saved to get some necessary repairs done – namely, patching the façade. It looked like a mob armed with pickaxes had swept through. Damn demons caused almost as much damage as the pigeons.

The cheap light fixtures in the office clinked idly in time with a particularly strong gust of wind howling past outside. A crack in the façade had been poorly patched with cardboard and duct-tape, doing little to stop the draft. The anemic light of the lamps did nothing to stir him from his slumber. Few things would. He was barely roused from his somnolent state by the howling wind, merely switched the positions of his crossed legs, heels propped up on his desk.

As usual, empty pizza boxes, grimy glasses and dirty magazines littered his desk, crowding each other for space. Only a picture frame seemed cared for, the clutter pushed away from its space. Eva smiled sweetly from the lacquered wood frame. The sultry pin-up girls simpered in the faded posters littering the walls. Music might have done something to lighten the room but the long-suffering jukebox in the corner lay silent, just like the aging drum set and an old guitar, badly in need of new strings. Across from them, beyond a battered sofa, a pool table sat forlornly with its colorful balls scattered on the scratched felt, gleaming in the faint light.

The overhead fan, creaking its way through a slow perpetual circle and casting soft shadows on the floor and walls, did little to dispel the heavy atmosphere of the office which did not trouble the demon hunter in the least. Not even the lingering smell or clinging aura of the demon skulls decorating his walls could stir the hunter, let alone their faint echoes of power and tempting words. Swords, broken blades and spears, even the top half of a halberd pinned them to the walls, testaments of the hunter’s victories.

A red duster hung neatly from such a broken spear, pinning an ugly mask to the wall.

“You gone deaf now?”

Dante finally peeled open his eyes and craned his neck forward to glance down past his crossed feet at Trish, standing at his door, holding a pizza box up like a first-class waitress. If only all waitresses looked _that_ good in tight leather pants and corsets.

He grinned lazily. “Is that for me?”

“It was,” she said pointedly. “Until _I_ paid for it. The delivery guy was banging on the door. You didn’t hear jack, did you?”  


Now she had his attention and his eyes popped open with a start. That’s right, he _had_ ordered pizza. How long had he been snoozing? He sat up and propped his elbow on the desk.

“Guess I dozed a bit too much,” he muttered then chuckled. “Must be getting soft in my old age.”

Trish smirked tartly at him and walked over, holding the box in one hand. Just as Dante held his hand out to silently demand the box, she tossed a large brown envelope at him. It landed on the desk with a soft crinkle of paper and a half spin.

“This was pushed under the door. For you,” she said coolly while dumping the box on his desk.

Dante eyed the envelope. His name and the name of the office were typed on – old typewriter too, not in the best condition, by the look of the typeset; the ‘e’ floated slightly over the rest, the ‘a’ sunk below the line and the ‘D’ had a crack right down the middle. He pushed it aside. It was probably either another request for his services or some debt he had to pay. It could wait.

He opened the pizza box and cringed. “What the… pineapples? _Again_?!” he groused. “This is the third time this month! What are those morons at the pizza joint doing?”

Trish cackled. “I like them,” she declared.

Dante grimaced at her. “Well I don’t. They’ve got no business on my pizza.”

“At least they aren’t olives.”

Dante’s cringe grew fiercer and he made a mock-gagging noise as he leaned back in his chair with a slice after he picked a fat pineapple slice off it. “I’m regretting the money I put into that place.”

“What money?” Trish countered, taking a slice of her own. “Your tab is over 100 bucks, isn’t it? _I_ paid for this one.”

“I told them I’ll get it at the end of the month—and I will!” he grumped, seeing her expression.

“Just don’t upset them or you can kiss pizza goodbye,” she shrugged. “Maybe that’s why they keep adding pineapples.”

“Or maybe _someone’s_ been making eyes at the delivery boy to screw with me,” he fired back irritably.

Trish did not dignify that with an answer, just chuckled and polished off her pizza. “I’m taking off. Don’t sleep through the rest of the year, will you?”

She picked up the enormous Sparda sword with ease and Dante quirked an eyebrow.

“Where are ya headed?” he asked.

“Girl business with Lady,” she replied, sauntering towards the doors.

She wasn’t fooling him. There was demon hunting to be had. “Why didn’t _I_ hear about this job?”

“Because you aren’t invited. Don’t wait up,” Trish chuckled, blowing him a kiss from the door.

Dante scoffed, scandalized at the idea that the two went off gallivanting without him. It was all a lot of hot air, though. If Lady wanted to pick up every exterminating job out there for the money and to satisfy her everlasting vendetta against demons of all kinds and Trish wanted to tag along for the fun of it… well, that was their business. Dante wasn’t interested unless something big was going on.

“Yeah, yeah… ‘later then.”

Dante feigned a sulk and just enjoyed his pizza – after spending about five minutes taking off all the pineapple pieces, grumbling. After the second slice, his eye fell on the envelope again. Something about it piqued his interest. It wasn’t quite the right size to be a debt collection notice or a bill. He licked some grease from his fingers, wiping them on his pants-leg, and picked it up.

Other than his typed name it was completely unmarked. He was used to being contacted through unusual means but nobody had ever crudely just crammed an envelope under his door. It was light, it couldn’t have contained much. He flipped it over in his hands a few times. Something was strange about it but he couldn’t put his finger on it – and that bothered him. After all the years he’d been in business, Dante felt he’d gotten quite good at picking up unusual hints and ‘vibes’ – whether it was objects, people, places or situations.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what was bothering him about this. Was it too subtle for even his sharp senses? Or was there absolutely nothing about it and he was overthinking this?

 _Now this is something new,_ he thought, turning it over again.

But the damn thing may well have come out of nowhere. He flipped it over again and with a sense of finality, wedged his thumb under the sealed flap, tearing across the edge to open it.

The black rotary phone beside him rang suddenly with a sharp, hoarse sound, cracking the silence.

Dante froze in the motion of opening the envelope and stared at the phone, as though the intrusive sound had offended him. Raising an eyebrow, he set the envelope down and leaned back in his chair, swung his legs up on the desk and thumped his heels on it heavily. The receiver bounced up and as he had done countless times before, he caught it and brought it to his ear.

“Devil May Cry,” he said, boredom lacing his tone.

“Albatross,” said a distant male voice.

Dante’s eyebrows rose. The password, a little safety precaution he’d issued to help weed out people who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into when calling him.

“So what’ll it be?” he said crisply. First whiff of bullshit and he would hang up.

“They are in Amaro.”

Dante frowned. The voice on the other end of the line had an edge of tension behind a façade of calm, with a faint accent he couldn’t quite place. European for sure but anything more specific eluded him.

“Yeah? And who might that be? Sorry to rain on your parade, but I don’t do rescue jobs--”

“Open the envelope.”

The voice had interrupted him without any overt inflection or change in tone. Now equally irritated and intrigued, Dante wedged the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he reached for the envelope. He opened it, plucking out a photo. He flicked it straight and stared at it.

The smile slid off his face like wet paint. He _felt_ his blood run cold. He pulled his legs off the desk and sat up straight.

He was staring at a photo taken in secret, the angles and awkward framing made that quite plain. He could see the inside of an old building, a library perhaps. Whatever room it was, it was rather dark and had multiple shelves crammed with books barely visible in the gloom. The few titles he could read and a few other items visible in the room told him it was an occult depository of sorts.

It was not what caused his heart to drop to his feet, though.

_Vergil._

It was Vergil, plain as day.

It couldn’t be anyone else, not even a demon donning his form for a cruel laugh – Dante knew them too well by now to be fooled. It was there, it was all there. The particular way his hair was swept back, the eerily familiar scowl glued to his face as always. The blue, battered coat. The contours of the face were correct – this was not the face of his brother as he had last seen it, falling away from him into the abyss, dejected and determined. Even in profile Dante could tell their faces were alike. This was Vergil, aged, just like he had, and then some. He looked haggard, an unexpected gauntness haunting his features and making his cheekbones sharp like his blade. He was clean-shaven but still bearing the marks of his corruption. Blue-black marks threaded across his bone white face like delicate cracks in porcelain.

Even the motion he was frozen in, through the camera’s lens, had the same eerie familiarity: Sheathing Yamato after a strike. Dante knew that motion all too well, he had seen Vergil do it so many times, the reverent way that his brother returned his blade to its home, all finesse without even trying. He could see specks of blood on the blade as it prepared to sink into the scabbard.

The photo had captured Vergil right after a killing blow.

Vergil… who was supposed to be _dead._

Dante had killed him.

No, not killed, he had _set his brother free_. Because Dante had killed a puppet wearing his brother’s skin, broken and twisting on the finger-strings of a monster. Nelo Angelo.

And yet here he was. Walking about, still bearing the signs of his corruption – and wielding Yamato.

Dante had left that sword with Nero. Keeping it in the family, he’d said, like it was a joke. But it wasn’t. He could never have held onto Yamato himself. Too painful. It was better off in the kid’s hands. But if Vergil had it now… what had happened to the kid? A chill ran down his spine. He hadn’t heard from the punk since Fortuna. Knowing him and Vergil though, whatever happened had not been quiet.

How long had it been since Vergil claimed his birthright back?

Dante sank in his chair, staring at the floor with the phone still at his ear. His mysterious caller said nothing, patiently content to wait and let him recover. He lost track of time as his brain struggled to process this revelation, trying to predict and anticipate the endless consequences this could have. Had some of the Order survived, tried to summon up more power? If so, how did Vergil turn up? Or had he been their goal all along? Nero could be dead already, if Vergil had claimed his sword back. Perhaps a greater demon was involved, one more powerful than Mundus – or perhaps just taking Mundus's place to start the cycle all over again, and time had already been ticking while he sat here dozing off. Doubts seeded his mind. What if he'd never truly set Vergil 'free'? What if his brother had been fighting through Hell all these years? Maybe this was something else entirely, a fell power Dante had never encountered before. This smelled like a trap from ten miles off. Nothing was certain and he couldn't trust anyone or anything he was told. The mystery caller could be toying with him and if he was, he'd live to regret ever saying 'Albatross' on a gloomy Thursday evening.

All this and more flashed through Dante's mind like lightning. The cold and cunning mind of a demon slayer assessed every possible threat, anticipated every betrayal. He'd experienced it all at one point or another; nothing could surprise him.

Yet all he could see was an old memory, one that still visited his dreams. He saw his hand reaching out for a brother falling into darkness.

And then there was the demon buried in him, what he was deep down when he forgot himself in the midst of a fight. The demonic heritage they shared which thrived on battle and conflict. That’s all he ever seemed to remember them doing; fighting, endlessly. It wasn’t always like that but as they grew into their powers, their demonic halves just wanted to battle, to tear at each other until one rose above as the strongest, like a pair of dogs fighting for supremacy.

Now he was staring at a ghost in the face.

The question was: would it have to be more of the same again?

“They are in Amaro,” the voice repeated suddenly.

It snapped him out of his spiral of confusion and concern. Wait. _They?_

“Who—“

He saw it. When he managed to tear his eyes off Vergil’s form, walking away from a kill, sheathing Yamato, he spotted the flash of red.

Another figure. The waning light of the hall and the awkward angle of the photo made it hard to see clearly. But Dante saw enough to be startled again. He suddenly reached into a half-open drawer of his desk and rummaged around hurriedly. Balled pieces of paper, string and a demonic charm or two spilled out from the drawer as he searched for a specific item. At last, from the far back, he plucked a battered old magnifying glass, with a broken, missing handle. He leveled it over the figure.

His breath hitched and he nearly blurted her name aloud. But he stopped himself – he couldn’t play into their hands, he couldn’t give out information.

Privately, though, his mind screamed.

_Tess…!?_

A small-statured young woman with deep red hair lagged behind Vergil, shadowing his footsteps but looking back and hesitating. Her face was barely lit and far from the camera but Dante could just see the expression on it. She was agitated. Her eyes were peeled and her lips parted slightly. Her body was tense, reluctant, almost like a dog being dragged along by a leash. Seeing her was like a second blow to the chest after seeing Vergil.

He knew her. He had known her as a teenager, when she was an angry, fearless little hellion and he was a cocky young punk himself. They were quite a pair, always in each other’s face, always eager to butt heads. She didn’t give a toss that he was a half-demon and he couldn’t care less that she was a witch. He’d even invented a dumb nickname for her: Twig, on account of her small size and thin build. They had only known each other for a few months, while he lived in the boarding house her family ran. But it was enough time to develop a weird little friendship.

Discovering a major demon trying to force his way into the human world, getting embroiled in the chaos it raised and fighting it before they were even legal to drink, had certainly helped.

But it had cost her. It killed the last of her family, forcing her to go into hiding. More than fifteen years on, he had almost come to accept that he might never see her again.

Yet here she was. All grown up and if it wasn’t for her fearful expression, she might’ve looked stunning. He shook his head in disbelief. She had changed but it had to be her. He’d know those eyes anywhere.

It raised a terrible thought to his mind. _Why is she with Vergil?_ He wondered whether she was working with him. She might have, if she knew who he was – perhaps thinking that as Dante’s brother he deserved help. There was no way she _didn’t_ know who he was. Tess was always too sharp for her own good – having a very sensitive sixth sense and ability to see the unseen didn’t hurt. She must know.

But the look on her face…

She looked frightened. Why would she follow him willingly if she was frightened? The Tess he knew would’ve fought even in the grip of terror. Instead, she followed him. Could he be misinterpreting her expression?

Within the span of a few moments he’d been confronted with two ghosts. Two people he never thought he’d see again.

He pulled himself together and grabbed the receiver.

"You should know the only jokes I like are my own," he said mildly. He wouldn't tip his hand, wouldn't reveal how much this one photo had shaken him. "Who are you?"

“I desire her safety,” said the voice. “The Rosengard coven cannot be trusted. There are adders in its midst. Demons stalk the roads of the city.”

Covens. Dante’s eyes narrowed. In the last days of their acquaintance, Tess had impressed upon him that he should only trust most of them about as far as he could throw them.

"Gee, someone's untrustworthy. I've never heard that before. I hope you’re not a politician," Dante chuckled lightly even though he felt numb. “ _Who are you?_ ” he repeated a little more forcefully.

“I cannot speak freely,” the other one said flatly. “Please. You must come to Amaro. Time is running short. They will both perish.”

The words came out sharp and short from that point on, a far cry from his usual jovial attitude. “Why, what’s going to happen?”

“I cannot speak freely,” the man repeated. “But it must be stopped. She must be stopped.”

“Who is ‘she’?”

“You will know soon enough.”

Dante had to be firm with himself to not give away his irritation. “How about you cut the second-rate gypsy theatrics and tell me something useful?”

“Come to Amaro. You will know.”

“Hang on—“

The line dropped dead. A long beeping sound made Dante stare at the receiver in irritation before dumping it on the phone, perhaps a little more forcefully than he meant to. He slumped back in his chair, arms draping numbly on the rests. He was trying to process everything that had just happened. The call, the photo…

He picked it up and stared at it.

It rattled him. That hadn’t happened in a while.

He flipped the photo and found a penned message in neat handwriting. _‘Time is short. They are in Amaro.'_

Again that message. That’s all he had to go on. Vergil, Tess, a city called Amaro and the Rosengard Coven, whatever that meant. How it all fit together was anyone’s guess.

He threw the photo on his desk irritably and palmed his face. It was such an obvious set up. This wasn’t a mere rescue mission. It was a trap. They always were. Dante was savvy enough to smell them a mile away. This one was baited so that he couldn’t resist. He had to know.

He had so many questions.

He almost stood up to pace but stopped himself and instead unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, the one he hardly ever opened. He kept some deeply personal things in there, like surviving photos of his mother and their life before her death and certain mementos of jobs that had affected him personally. Like a glove bearing the marks of a precise cut. He stared at it for a long time before he tore his sight away to find something else.

He carefully picked through the items and plucked out a piece of black velvet folded around something small. He deposited it gently on the table, unfolded it and contemplated the object secreted within for a long minute. A humble, hand-wrought little round amulet of aged silver – delicately made for a woman’s neck. A protective pattern of a triple moon was stamped on it and a black stone set in the middle. It hung by a piece of thick black string, a piece of an aged hangman’s rope.

It stared back at him patiently.

Before vanishing out of his life, Tess had given it to him as a kind of guarantee that they would meet again. Because he had not wanted her to go. She looked so scared and reluctant to go seek shelter in that mysterious coven that it had angered him. A stupid, naïve promise from one teenager to another – who gives away a precious memento of their parents to an angry punk they’ve only known for a few months?!

But she had. And he kept it.

 _“You can give it back to me when I come back,”_ she had said.

He had hoped the circumstances under which he would return it would have been better.

So much for hopes.

Trish found him in the same spot when she returned. The sun had just gone down. She walked in, humming faintly and just stopped when she saw him. She stared, curious, for a moment and then chose her tone carefully.

Because there was something very wrong about Dante.

“What’s wrong?”

Dante had the expression of someone who had made a grave decision. He stood up and strode over to where his guns were, picked them up and calmly slid them into the holsters before reaching for his coat.

“There’s something I gotta do,” he said evenly but not quite in his usual lackadaisical tone. “I might be away for a while. Could be pretty big.”

She folded her arms. “Do you want me to come?”

He turned around just as he secured Rebellion to his back. “No,” he said unexpectedly firmly. “And I don’t want Lady running after me, either. This is… personal. You ladies hold the fort.”

Trish’s eyebrows bowed up. _Personal_. Now there was a word Dante never really used when it came to demon hunting.

“You sure?” she asked, carefully casual.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it,” he replied.

The envelope was plucked from the desk and carefully deposited in his coat’s pocket before she could even see its contents. He walked past her for the door.

Trish watched him raise a hand and give her a half-assed goodbye wave without even turning back.

“Oh and tell Lady that I’ll get her money when I get back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look who it is! :D

The bar smelled of old leather, alcohol and greasy cigar smoke that rolled around the space in the faint draft that somehow succeeded in finding its way into the dive. And yet the expected hullabaloo of raucous conversation mixing with music and the clinking of glasses and bottles was absent. The cozy little dive was absolutely empty, chairs upturned from the tables and stools at the bar knocked aside. Glasses lay abandoned, some spilling their contents on tables, the bar or the dusty floor.

“Come on friend, I didn’t come to you for nothing,” Dante chuckled. “Anyone I asked said you know absolutely everything going on in Amaro.”

The barman uttered a confused, frightened whimper as he bent over, still dazed from the sudden attack that saw him end with the side of his face planted onto the polished wood surface of the bar. A large, black gun was pressed into his cheek menacingly, keeping him in place.

In contrast to the barman’s tense, trembling form, the crimson-clad demon hunter sat at the tall bar-side stool utterly relaxed. He held the gun in one hand and in the other he nursed a tumbler full of glittering amber whiskey served over ice which he studied with relish.

“P-please,” squeaked the barman with a thick Italian accent. “I don’t know—“

“My trigger finger’s getting itchy.”

The barman squirmed as the gun clicked gently with the subtle movement of the hunter’s wrist. The barman glanced at the large bullet hole left by Dante’s first warning shot that emptied the entire dive. The sheer size of the damage left behind by a single shot seemed to have an effect upon the man’s judgement.

“A-alright! Alright… the Rosengard coven. Yes. Okay. I don’t know what you want with them but I’ll tell you,” the barman babbled.

Dante smiled, slowly draining his glass while the contact finally gave him all the information that he needed about the possibly not quite so friendly neighborhood witches.

The moment he’d set foot in Amaro, Dante knew that the city had secrets; the kind of secrets that run deep and dark, festering under the surface like gangrene, just waiting to burst. He had failed to locate his mysterious caller – the man may not have been kidding about the risks involved in calling him, but then again, he may never have really existed at all either. Pressed for information, Dante had resorted to plumbing the black market of information for people in his line of work. Every city, every country had one, if you knew where exactly to look and his ‘gentle prodding’ had brought him to this dive.

He didn’t think Vergil would be careless enough to leave some opening that’d allow Dante to find him unless he wanted to be found. Tracking Tess first might prove easier.

He left the bar with a great deal of information about the coven, turning it over in his head as he climbed the narrow, steep staircase that took him back to the light of day. Unfortunately, none of it directly related to Tess or Vergil. He was beginning to feel a twinge of doubt in the back of his mind, that this had all been a waste of time.

But that photo…

Damn everything, he _had_ to know.

It felt good to get back to clean air. The narrow cobblestone street was sandwiched between old stone buildings and winding under crude arches before letting out into the piazza. Amaro was an old town, almost stereotypically medieval; just blocks stacked higgledy-piggledy on a slope that dipped sharply into the sea. It reminded him a little bit of Fortuna but Amaro seemed even older and untouched. The Renaissance must’ve been late coming in this coastal little medieval city. Solid, severe stone masonry buildings, faced with dulled plaster, dominated the landscape; heavy shapes that squatted along the roads, crushed together under their heavy tile roofs. Now and again, a tall, narrow and angular tower would rise well beyond its mates, plain and mostly unadorned, just reaching for the sky like an empty hand. In its shadow, the timid belfry of an ancient church would try in vain to compete. Many streets were too narrow even for cars.

He paused in the empty piazza, baking in the low sun with its dark tiles and a single, giant of an oak in the middle.

Dante went over everything he’d found out so far. Basically, the Rosengard coven _was_ Amaro. It was a common secret of the not-so-secret-anymore variety, since just about everyone local had ties to the coven – of course any citizen asked about it would deny it and scoff at the idea of witches in their midst. It really smacked of old school mafia. Spaghetti and witchcraft, baby.

With his mysterious caller conspicuous in their absence, Dante felt that he’d get some reaction if he went straight to the top and rattled their cage. The High Priestess, La Alta, or so the barman called their leader – an old term used as a formality.

Yeah, right.

Maybe if he shot her in the head too he’d draw the bullshit out sooner.

Assuming there _was_ bullshit.

Because in all honesty unlike Fortuna, Amaro felt… _clean_. Sure, he could feel a bit of an underlying demonic presence in the city, but there was something distinctly ‘dormant’ about it. There was mostly _tension_. Nothing specific, just a deep feeling like there was something waiting to happen, like the tightly wound strings on a violin that are waiting to tear themselves apart at the slightest misstep.

Quite often he was enough of a catalyst to cause that sort of snap that let the ugly undercurrent spill out into the open.

So to realize that there would be another player in this long game was not a pleasant thing. He sensed Nero’s presence before the kid even walked up to him. Dante groaned internally and smiled stiffly. At least the kid wasn’t dead, but he was awful at keeping a low profile; he could’ve attracted everyone’s attention from fifty miles away. Even Dante felt embarrassed for him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to determine why he was in Amaro. Which was the last place Dante wanted him in.

He turned around to face him just as the kid strode out of a street into the piazza, making a straight beeline for him. Dante’s lips twitched into an amused smirk. The kid looked good and pissed – but also like he’d been through the tumble-dryer. Dante could discern fading scars on his face, as though his demonic powers of regeneration hadn’t quite succeeded in wiping out all the signs of the attack. On top of that, his trained eye caught a particular stiffness in his step and a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. Nero was now conscious that he wasn’t invincible and it showed.

Vergil must’ve done a number on the kid. It was something of a feat that the kid hadn’t died – either Vergil wasn’t up to snuff, or Nero was too stubborn to kick the bucket.

Dante couldn’t decide which condition he preferred.

“Well if it ain’t the Fortuna Kid,” he chuckled in the face of Nero’s supremely sour expression.

Nero wasn’t feeling very chatty, evidently. “Guess I’m in the right place if _you’re_ here,” he almost spat.

Dante frowned for a moment and then scoffed. “Yeah, hello to you too. Right place for what, then?”

Nero crossed his arms over his chest – his Devil Bringer glowed duller than Dante remembered it. “Three months ago, I got attacked outside Fortuna,” he growled. “By somebody who looked a lot like you, just… off.”

Dante blessed his oft-practiced ability in keeping his face absolutely neutral because the kid was fishing for information. “That so?” he quipped.

Nero’s expression darkened, loath to admit the events. “He was… His face was like broken pottery. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen so much hate in someone’s eyes, not even a demon.”

Dante resisted a shiver at the notion but laughed it off. “Waxing poetic now, kid?”

“Shut up,” Nero snapped. “I think something was wrong with him—“

“But he still kicked your butt.”

Nero made an irritated noise at him and scoffed. “Tsk. Jerk caught me off guard.  I… don’t know how. He was just too fast for me.” He paused and looked away. “Kind of like you. Except more precise and… he didn’t pull his punches. He summoned a bunch of glowing swords. I couldn’t deflect or avoid them all. Hurt like hell when they connected. And I think something was wrong with the Devil Bringer all through the fight,” he muttered, unconsciously gripping at his demonic arm’s wrist. “Like something was holding it back.”

Nero paused, glaring vaguely at the ground, indignant. “He took the sword. Yamato. I tried to use it against him but when he saw it he seemed furious. That’s when he finished me off and took it.”

“And you’re here to get even, I get it,” Dante said and flicked his hand. “But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to deny you. I don’t rightly know what kinda mess this is, yet, but its personal business. And I’ll thank you to keep your green little nose out of it.”

Nero gaped slightly. “What?”

“Did I stutter? I said, don’t bother. Turn around and walk yourself back home, kid. This situation is personal.”

“Too bad. I don’t care,” Nero snapped. “I’m apparently already involved, so why don’t you drop the cryptic shit and tell me what’s going on? Who the hell attacked me and what’s he to you?”

Well now the brat had pissed him off and even with his tremendous self-control Dante could not help the faint trickle of demonic presence that bled out of him as he spoke. “I said, kid, _stay out of it_.”

That flash of power made Nero balk like a startled colt – and the boy did not relish that flinch reflex. He tightened his fists and responded in kind, except he had no qualms of letting more power loose around him. “Why don’t you try and make me, old man?” he snarled.

It was an overwhelmingly tempting proposition; the chance to let off some steam and completely dissuade the kid from his revenge by beating the holy snot out of him. The fun of mocking him for not realizing how deep he was getting into or how much his ability to regulate his demonic powers stank. And yet, Dante had to bow to the wisdom of avoiding a big, ugly fight here and now. The last thing he needed now was to send the wiccans into high alert, and possibly catching the attention of anything else unsavory sleeping in the town.

Not until he knew what was going on. Not until he had an idea of who was involved and how his brother and his old friend were tied into all of this.

“Back off, ya little punk. I’d bend you over my knee and spank you real good this time,” he said dryly. “But I’ve got a pressing date. You don’t know jack about what’s going on so do yourself a favor and either drop it and leave, or stay the hell out of my way because this time I’ll be too busy to come rescue your hide.”

“I never asked you to do any rescuing, you old shit!” Nero barked. “And quit avoiding the question! You know what’s going on, just tell me already!”

He was fighting instinct and personal pride here but he turned around to walk away. “Be smart, Nero, and don’t ask about what’s not your business,” he said as he walked off. “And if I catch you following me, you’ll wish your attacker had finished the job.”

Whether his warning had an effect or not and Nero simply got it into his head to find out on his own, Dante was glad that the little idiot did as he was told and resisted the urge to follow him. He could still feel the boy’s angry vibes all the way over there as he headed uphill to an older district of the city. Amaro was a quiet little town and the streets were empty – but somewhere in the back of his mind Dante felt the curious but wary eyes of people spying him from inside their homes, behind thick curtains.

His intended destination was an old _palazzo_ in the district. As he approached it he took in the heavy, hewn stone structure with its elegant symmetry, the somber façade of plain sand stone and a simple cornice that gave it a strong outline. Rows of narrow windows under stone arches looked out from the face of the building like the eyes of cats. It lacked the refinement and adornments of similar, bigger structures found in other cities, so admired by tourists.

So this was the nerve center of the Rosengard coven.

It really was deceptively demure; Dante had to give them that. Rather than standing in a central street where all could see it, it was hidden amid a sea of residences, overlooking one of those narrow cobblestone streets that forbade anything larger than a motorcycle.

The place seemed shuttered up and deserted, but for two middle-aged men, tanned and lined by the hot sun, who sat at an iron-wrought table beside a large arched door closed tight. They were at evident leisure, idly playing cards, nursing a glass of wine each and nattering on in some Italian dialect so thick and rapid that it sounded almost like gibberish.

They seemed all too happy to ignore him and quibble about their game but the closer he got the more attention their paid him, until he was almost at the door. At that point they both stopped talking and one turned round in his chair to stare up at him.

“Who is it you want to see?” he asked with a thick accent.

Honestly, Dante had expected hostility, even a subtle threat, maybe even a bit of lingering magic intended to throw him off or spook him. All he got was the vague question by a guy who seemed completely human.

Dante frowned at him for a moment there, unsure whether to be his usual charming self or play it diplomatically. He settled on being civil for the time being.

“La Alta, I guess,” he said flatly. “I’m looking for a person who might be here.”

He wasn’t even lying.

The man blinked at him like a cat and then got up, as though this was some colossal imposition, and banged his fist on the door a couple of times. A plump old lady dressed all in black opened, her weathered face peering out like a gargoyle. She and the man had a quick exchange in the local dialect. The woman stared at Dante and her beady little eyes widened faintly. She grumbled something and shut the door.

The man returned to his seat and at his companion’s prompt, gathered all the cards and shuffled them. “You wait a little. They let you in,” he said dryly, pairing it with a little gesture of the hand, rubbing his thumb to his fingers.

Dante wanted to scoff at the utterly cavalier attitude of the man but they really didn’t make him wait very long. Mere moments after the old woman had closed the door it opened inwards again to reveal a much younger woman in casual wear. It got Dante’s attention because this time he felt it: The faint presence of wiccan powers.

“Hello.” Her accent was lighter. “Please, come inside. La Alta will see you.”

Could it really be that damn easy? Dante wondered as he stepped over the threshold. As he did he felt the tug of seals and wards. The place was heavily protected. He wasn’t unfamiliar with these subtle protective spells that wiccans surrounded their dwellings with. He had grown better at picking them up since he was a kid. This one was very potent indeed and had many layers. He was pretty sure that if these people hadn’t let him in willingly, he’d never have broken through it and if he misbehaved, it could really come down on him hard.

The woman led him through a simple square courtyard with an old terracotta tile floor, surrounded by a gallery of elegant arches perched on narrow marble columns topped with ornate capitals. Dante glanced aside to two people, a man and a woman, both more or less in their twenties, sitting in a corner of the courtyard. They had been speaking but the moment he passed by them, they stopped and just stared at him extremely warily. His guide opened a side door and led him into a fairly small parlor room furnished simply but tastefully.

In one of the two wood-frame sofas in the room sat another woman, whom Dante immediately knew was the reputed La Alta, just from her presence and aura of power.

She was a plain-looking woman, really, somewhere in her mid-fifties but her olive-complexioned face was relatively smooth. Her dark brown hair, gathered in a severe bun, was threaded with gray. Her gray eyes were bright and alert. She was decked in a plain black dress with a high neck and elbow-length sleeves and sat with her hands clasped together in her lap. She looked like the headmistress of some prep school. The only thing that screamed ‘witch’ about her was a heavy pendant of silver with a pentacle set in precious stone.

“Welcome to the Rosengard coven,” she said simply. She had barely any accent and  a soft, cultured voice. “I am Regina, the High Priestess of this coven. I know who you are. What is your business with us?”

Dante smirked. Straight to business. He had no doubt that he scared these people – as well he should. But he rather appreciated the woman’s maintenance of a cool and calm exterior while making no effort whatsoever to hide her own potent powers. She was no hedge witch that was for sure. He was forcefully reminded of Magda, Tess’ formidable grandmother, back when the old crone was alive and seething. Magda may not have been evil but she had certainly been no saint, doing little to conceal her dislike of Dante.

“I’m looking for one of your coven,” he replied.

“Why?” she interjected before he could speak further.

She was good. She didn’t plan to give him anything until she was sure of his intentions. But Dante really didn’t want to show his hand quite yet, or give them any unnecessary information.

“I think that would be my business, ma’am,” he offered.

Regina’s face remained neutral and she fixed him with her gaze. “Your reputation precedes you. You must understand that I am responsible for the well-being of my people. I would not see any of them harassed.”

She’d spoken with a kind of finality that told Dante she wouldn’t budge from that.  He also wondered, just what _was_ his reputation with these wiccans? He had no reason to think Tess would’ve spoken a word about him to them. It was entirely possible they knew about Fortuna, in which case, depending on how much they knew and where their inclinations lay, he was either a murderer or a hero.

He shrugged. “Fine. Let’s just say I want to make sure they’re alive and well. That’s all. I’m not here to be a boogeyman.”

She considered his words for a long time and finally nodded. “Very well. Who is it that you seek? I can send for them, if they are in Amaro.”

Dante had expected greater difficulties, judging by the way his caller had spoken about the coven on the phone. His face remained neutral but internally, he had narrowed his eyes and was scrutinizing this High Priestess very closely. Did she really want to get him out of her hair so much or was there some ulterior motive at play here?

He’d have to take a risk, see how she reacted when he asked. “I’m looking for a woman. Redhead. Has an aptitude for fire. Temper matches, too.”

For the first time, Regina reacted. He saw her eyebrows arch lightly and her eyes widen. “You speak of Tess,” she said. “I am sorry. But you may have come here in vain.”

Dante perked up at that. “Why, what’s the matter?” he asked, expecting to be told to take a hike.

Regina hesitated. “I’m afraid that Tess has been… lost to us,” she said. “I do not control the lives of my people but I make a point of knowing their whereabouts. Nobody knows where Tess has gone for the past year. I do not know where she is. She disappeared very suddenly.”

Although this was a possibility that he had anticipated, he dreaded getting the answer. He briefly wondered whether Tess had broken away from the coven for some reason and _deliberately_ hid her tracks from them. He could’ve asked about Roy, Tess’ familiar, but that would be telling this woman too much. He would have to pursue other threads of information.

“Guess that settles that, then,” he said and shrugged giving the impression he was about to call it a day.

He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Just as he hoped, Regina was not done with this meeting. She held his gaze again, solemn. “I do not believe in coincidence, demon hunter,” she said. “Your presence here, at this time is not by chance. Surely, you have sensed it. Amaro is not as it should be.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, faintly. “Oh, you must mean the demon stench I noticed hanging around the city,” he chuckled.

She paid no attention to his attitude. “Yes. Our coven is under attack. It is a subtle, creeping attack like slow poison. There have been deaths. Yet we have seen no demons that we may combat. Strays have slipped into the world but they are not the culprits. There is a much deeper play at hand here.”

“Get to the point, lady,” Dante said flatly, knowing what was coming.

Her calm expression cracked at last. She allowed herself a small frown, a mere crease in her forehead. “You evidently are here because you believe Tess is here. Assist us with this incursion and I will lend you our help in locating her.”

Dante’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Sounds like your problem,” he said casually. “I don’t do the buddy system thing. But I’m not going to give you people any trouble. Not unless you start it. I’d call this interview over. Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.”

Regina said nothing to all this, merely inclined her head and watched him leave. He crossed the now completely empty courtyard once more and went out through the front door, which was open and waiting for him. It swung closed behind him and he actually felt the building’s wards snap shut as it did. He would not be gaining entry into this building again, it seemed. Which was just as well, because he now had more information than when he’d started.

The two men outside were nowhere to be seen, having abandoned the table, their glasses and their cards. With a last derisive snort, Dante started back down the street, mentally settling in for the long task of somehow tracking down these demonic energies to see where they took him. He always hated this part of the chase, the sniffing around to see if there even was some quarry for him.

He hated it even more so now, with his head a whirlwind of concerns and thoughts. The question of why Tess was missing. What if Tess hadn’t just left the coven but had actually _defected_? Why would she do that? Then there was the question of Vergil’s involvement and what he might be planning. He really should’ve turned up by now. He wondered whether Vergil was aware of his presence in Amaro – assuming that Vergil really was here. Nero had shown up too and he doubted the kid would walk away just because Dante growled at him. Why was Amaro experiencing a demonic infestation in the first place? Weren’t the wiccans doing anything? Unless they were finding themselves beyond their abilities. But then again, he knew this Regina character was hiding things – they all did. He’d sensed nothing untoward from her, just a thick aura of wiccan power. But witches were good at hiding things…

Dante had found himself in the dizzying labyrinth of tiny alleys between buildings once more. Figuring out where to start with his search was going to be a pain in such narrow streets, maybe he should—

“Dante.”

He stopped, but not before his hand had already closed around the grip of one of his guns, ready to aim it at a desired target.

The voice had come from an alley to his left. A figure emerged from the shadows. The demon slayer smirked.

“You must be my long-distance caller, then.”

He wasn’t quite what Dante had expected. The man was shorter than him, thin and almost frail-looking but with a nervous energy in his limbs. There was a kind of dignified shabbiness about him. He couldn’t be older than thirty, with a sickly pale complexion and a very narrow and angular face. A pair of oval sight glasses perched on his nose over sharp, bright brown eyes. His hair was long, down to his shoulders, a warm chestnut brown but unkempt, just hastily pulled into a haphazard ponytail. He was clean shaven but dressed in exactly the kind of clothes you’d expect from a university scholar, dull gray trousers, a dirty white shirt, a rumpled tie and a maroon vest.

“Yes,” the man said. He had a flat, tired voice. “I am sorry to have not met with you sooner. It is very difficult to navigate Amaro while avoiding the scrutiny of the coven. I have been keeping to the shadows.”

“You’re a wiccan,” Dante observed flatly.

“Yes. Yes,” the man said nervously. “I make no secret of it. But I am no longer welcome in the Rosengard coven. I expressed some ideas altogether too distasteful to La Alta. Her displeasure is surprisingly petty.”

“Is it, now,” Dante mused.

He felt the energies of the man as if they were light coming from under a heavy woolen blanket draped over it. He had evidently been invoking some kind of concealment spell – for the benefit of the coven, presumably. But powers or not, you could’ve knocked this guy over with a leaf.

The man nodded. “I believe they suspect my presence in the city but as you see for yourself, they have more pressing matters at hand than a renegade alchemist. I am Ricardo.”

“Well nice to meet’cha. Those witches sound like a happy bunch,” Dante scoffed. “Good thing I said I don’t do the team stuff.”

Ricardo’s expression quaked, turning anxious. “You’ve really been to see them,” he observed. “You did not mention Tess to Regina, I hope.”

Dante’s expression darkened. “Why’s that?”

The alchemist’s already pale face blanched and he looked ready to crumble to the cobblestones. “You did. This is very bad. Regina now will suspect that Tess is indeed involved in this situation. I’m afraid your foolish action may have exposed her to greater danger.”

Dante balked. “Hang on a second; she said that Tess has been missing for like a year. What about her familiar?”

“Roy,” Ricardo said sadly. “He disappeared five years ago. Tess was distraught. Neither of us ever found out what happened to him.”

Dante frowned. That wasn’t good. Roy wasn’t a run of the mill familiar; there was no way he’d just up and left.

Ricardo regarded him coldly. “Of course Regina lied,” he deadpanned. “She does not want you here. Regina knows full well that Tess is in Amaro and working against the coven. If she knows you are looking for her, she will use you to find her.”

Dante scowled at that. “Yeah well, she can try,” he growled. “Why does this Regina want to find Tess? What does she think Tess is doing?”

“She doesn’t know, that’s why she’s so anxious to find her,” Ricardo said. “Regina has no control over Tess now and that makes her exceedingly nervous. She sees threats to her position everywhere and prior to her disappearance, Tess was very high in her suspicions.”

“What does that have to do with the man who was with her in the photo?”

Dante was very careful not to mention his relation to Vergil, but he was stunned to find that Ricardo was more informed than he expected.

“Vergil,” Ricardo grumbled and his expression darkened. “I do not care what his connection with you is. I am only concerned with Tess’ safety, no more, no less.”

Dante felt his eyebrow quirk upwards slightly at this. “What do you know about him?” he asked carefully.

“Regrettably, very little,” Ricardo admitted, shaking his head. “He is cautious. Only that he has slaughtered several wiccans with impunity and under the coven’s noses. He seeks something in Amaro. I do not know what.”

He was interrupted by a bout of rather violent coughing that forced him to brace against the wall and cover his mouth with a handkerchief that came away from his mouth stained faintly with blood.

“Cursed disease—“ Ricardo hissed. “Nevermind. There is another, more disconcerting issue, though. Regina has not bothered to tell about the Gates.”

Dante frowned. “Gates, huh?” he huffed. “Must be new models, because I haven’t seen any in this sleepy little town.”

Ricardo nodded. “Yes, I believe they differ greatly from the edifices found in Fortuna. They have not been opened, merely prepared. I’ve yet to discover for precisely what reason. But I believe it is Vergil who has created them through some arcane means.”

He retrieved a piece of folded paper from his vest’s pocket and handed it to Dante. “I have succeeded in mapping the Gates that I have found so far but I suspect there to be others. They are curious things, really. They seem so small and thrown together, rather than edifices in their own right. The coven has attempted to undo them but they are heavily protected and appear capable of reconstituting themselves. It could mean they must be active to be destroyed.”

Dante actually had a close look at the map of the region, where the location of the Gates was noted. Four of them were mapped. He’d long since learned that location could be potentially important in the function of the Gate. He frowned. The Gates seemed to be set in a strange configuration that made no sense to him. There wasn’t a pattern that was in any way recognizable to him.

_What is Vergil playing at? What’s he doing?_

The idea that Vergil was somehow creating Gates, even small ones, worried him. Perhaps if he visited one he’d glean some sort of clue. He stowed the map away in his pocket.

“That’s all fine and good, Ricky,” he said, holding a grim smile. “But I can’t help but wonder why you’re going to all this trouble.”

Ricardo’s face finally lost some of its pallor as faint color rose to his cheeks. “Before my ousting, Tess and I were… close friends. I wish for her safety. The devil can take the coven and this entire city for all I care,” he said fiercely.

Dante felt his brow twitch. It was stupid and childish but a pang of jealousy swelled in his chest towards this weedy little alchemist.

Ricardo grew more animated now. “We cannot tarry here too long. I risk discovery. What will you do now?”

Dante shrugged, resisting the urge to glower. “Whatever I need to, but let’s get one thing straight, Ricky. I don’t care how helpful you’ve been. I don’t trust you.”

“A wise course of action,” the alchemist replied unexpectedly. “Do as you see fit. I am no warrior. I can only endeavor to uncover what I can of the Gates, but do tread carefully.”

Dante shrugged and started to walked off, raising his hand in a lazy wave before letting it drop by his side. Treading carefully wasn’t fun. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, unscheduled early update because I lost a bet.

Nero kicked a loose cobblestone in his way. He watched it ping harshly against the plaster of a silent building and skitter along the narrow street ahead of him. The grinding knocks of impact reverberated along the empty alley like the beats of a drum. He rather wished he could punch something, but he was all too aware that’d probably mean punching clean through a residence. With the widespread destruction in Fortuna still fresh on his mind, somehow the idea of inflicting the same on innocent people didn’t sit well with the young demon hunter.

He was frustrated. He had stood there and had watched Dante trudge off with a heavier step than he remembered seeing him have. A few months ago, Nero would’ve run straight after him, punching his dumb old face across the city if he had to, just to make a point. But since the vicious attack he’d suffered, he had been rattled and now the look on Dante’s face had actually put him on guard.

He hated it.

The last time he’d picked a fight with Dante, both times the old man hadn’t even bothered to fight him properly. He just messed with him and let Nero know how out of his league he was. Now he had a sneaking feeling that his unknown attacker had unwittingly shown him why Dante had done that. Nero had his suspicions: Their appearance was just too similar. Even under the demonic corruption and the darkened eyes, his attacker and Dante were… more or less, _identical_. But so wildly different. Even though his attacker showed signs of weakness, he’d still put Nero closer to the threshold of death than anything had so far.

Nero ground his teeth and muttered a string of obscenities under his breath, replaying the battle in his head yet again. The sudden overwhelming ambush, the precision with which his attacker evaded every blow – now Nero could see the swings of the Red Queen had been weak and clumsy and the shots from the Blue Rose went embarrassingly wide. He remembered the searing pain that gripped the Devil Bringer, as if it were entangled in vines whose thorns gouged deep into his flesh. The last effort to draw the sword, Yamato and fight back was thwarted with renewed savagery. With _anger_.

The final, most frightening moment: the stranger tore Yamato from his grip and after a fleeting moment of contemplating the blade, as if reuniting with an old friend, the nightmare of cuts. Nero never really even saw him draw the blade, he just heard the din of metal and the earth-shaking force of sonic booms as the swings broke the sound barrier before colliding with him.

He had been in so much pain that he felt nothing else. The demon-powered regenerative ability he’d come to rely on had turned him reckless and right when he needed it the most it seemed unable to keep up with the sheer trauma.

He had lain on the ground in a broken heap, barely conscious enough to see the man in azure walk away from him, sheathing the oriental sword reverently. Fading in and out of consciousness as something toxic ate at his insides. Unable to scream as another figure came into his blurry vision—

_Who was that? I never got a good look._

He growled quietly and shook his head to dispel the memories. But doing so just brought him face to face with his current problem once more.

He had no idea what to do. He’d set out determined to find the man in blue to take Yamato back and get even, but after Dante warned him off so frigidly he was fully confronted with the reality that he had no idea where to look. He’d managed, through some remaining contacts of the Order of the Sword and some liberal application of violence, to track him to this puny little backend of Italy. Surely enough the little city felt… strange. Sort of like Fortuna had when things started going particularly crazy, but then again not quite the same.

Nero couldn’t put his finger on it and that irritated him. He loathed any kind of reminder that he was still painfully new at utilizing these demonic powers he had. He still had trouble telling what he was sensing sometimes.

Much easier to rely on cues like demons showing up to attack him straight on – or screams.

Screams were good too. They meant trouble.

He didn’t even hesitate at the sound of a man’s startled scream, followed by the distinctive noise of a heavy blade scraping on stone. If there was even the slightest chance he’d run into the man in blue here, he’d take it. Sensing the spiking of demonic powers certainly helped.

Nero stepped through an arch into what looked like a small public courtyard or marketplace, just an open space where the buildings finally let up from their oppressive closeness into an open space.

A frail-looking man had collapsed against a wall, in the middle of a violent coughing fit that shook his entire body while a hideous-looking demon wrapped in ink-black robes swung a large scythe overhead in preparation to attack. Nero had never seen this type of demon before but he knew exactly how to deal with the situation.

He wound his right arm back and launched a powerful punching motion, sending the spectral arm of the Devil Bringer to snatch the demon and throw it against the ground, cratering it into the cobblestones. It made an utterly confused wail and Nero smirked as he drew his sword to fight it. He had some steam to let out but he spared the stunned, still coughing man a glance. 

“Keep low, I’ll take care of this,” he said with an amused tone.

It was a pretty short fight. Sure, the demon had some fancy teleportation abilities and it did surprise him once by bursting out of the ground underneath him. But it couldn’t stand up against his vicious sword blows once Nero had figured out how to block its scythe swipes using the Devil Bringer. Once Nero picked up its attack pattern it was really all over. A few deft blows and the demon screamed in defeat, disintegrating into sand.

Now he could get some answers.

Nero strode over to the man, who was making an effort to pick himself up, using the wall behind him to brace himself and stand up slowly. He still coughed and pressed a handkerchief to his face. It came away with some blood as Nero stood over him. The stranger looked terrified and utterly out of place on a battlefield, wearing shabby office clothes and having messy brown hair in a ponytail. He spoke in short, nervous sentences with a tired voice that made him sound older than he was.

“Thank you. I am in your debt for this rescue—“

“Don’t thank me yet,” Nero warned him, scrutinizing him closely. In some way this guy made him think of Agnus and the thought of him angered the young demon hunter. “You feel funny. What are you?” he asked sharply, gun in hand.

The man looked up at him behind oval, thin glasses and raised both hands in front of him defensively. He was very gaunt.

“Please, wait. I am no enemy of yours,” he said. “You are… partly demonic, yes? It is plain in your arm’s appearance. I’m only a wiccan, an alchemist. I believe that you sense my own meagre power; that is all.”

Nero’s grip around his gun tightened. He may no longer have considered himself a Holy Knight of the Order of the Sword but he’d still taken away a good deal of training and lessons in the nature of demons as well as other beings that might be in league with them.

Like witches and warlocks.

The Order knew these people well, judging by how much the doctrines talked about them. They’re human but they have unnatural powers. They can distort the world to their whim. They are ‘the natural allies of demons’. They have no honour, fighting with tricks and deceit from the side-lines. They adapt and subvert. They’re liars. They are enemies of the Order. He knew the Order had, at some point in its history, conducted a large purge in and around Fortuna to eradicate all wiccans in its vicinity.

But after what the Order themselves had done, Nero had some suspicions that everything wasn’t as black and white as the Order presented them.

“A warlock, huh?” Nero sneered. “So that’s what feels so funny in this city. There’s a whole wasp nest of you here, on top of demons.”

“It isn’t that simple. Please—please put that away, if you would,” the man quivered, eyes glued to the Blue Rose, still in Nero’s hand. “I’m a man of medicine, not a fighter.”

Nero narrowed his eyes at the man for a long moment and then holstered the gun. Warlock or no, this guy was not a threat. Nero could sense him and he barely registered as a blip.

“So what the hell is going on in this town?” he demanded. “And who are you?”

The man stayed glued against the wall but straightened his glasses with a trembling hand. “I… I am Ricardo. Just an alchemist. Formerly of the Rosengard coven. Now… um, I suppose I’m a fugitive.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you do, grew yourself some demon pets?” Nero snapped.

The statement seemed to rattle this Ricardo character. “Oh, no. No—no. On the contrary. The coven made some demands of me— awful, disturbing demands. I… er, I refused. I’m a doctor, not… not a monster. I’m afraid it made me very disagreeable to the coven and its interests.”

Nero frowned at him. He certainly couldn’t trust this guy and he doubted that he was entirely honest. But Nero wasn’t interested in what the local witch population was getting up to; he just wondered whether this involved Dante and the mysterious man somehow.

“But… do tell me,” Ricardo said, interrupting his thoughts. “You are… from Fortuna, yes? I believe I’ve heard of you. A former knight of the Order of the Sword, who felled this… this Savior construct.”

Nero tensed. He was proud of his feats and his newfound power but a total stranger knowing about that made him feel uneasy. Which in turn irritated him.

“Yeah, so what?” he snapped.

Ricardo shrank back. “Oh, no, please. Do not misunderstand me. I… I did not mean offense,” he placated. “It’s just… well, I fear that Amaro may face a similar danger soon. You see, there is… a presence here that…”

He trailed off, gripping his handkerchief with both hands and wringing it nervously. Nero’s interest was caught though.

“What are you talking about?” he pressed.

“Tell me; are you here because of… the man in blue?” Ricardo asked carefully.

Nero practically leaped at him, getting in his face eagerly. “A blue coat, white hair and a face like a broken plate,” he snapped. “Yeah, I’m here for him. Where is he?”

Ricardo shook his head nervously. “I do not know. But I can tell you of him. I, too, want to combat him but as you see, I do not possess the gift of battle and he is... he is singularly terrifying.”

Nero glowered fiercely. “What’s your beef with him?”

“He has brought ruin to Amaro and thrown the coven into disarray. He is doing something in the city, looking for something. I do not know what,” Ricardo said. “And… he has someone, someone very dear to me, in his grasp. I have failed her once already. I don’t know if you understand how it feels like to watch someone you love in the grip of an enemy – an enemy so overwhelming, there is nothing you can do but scream at the cosmos for your weakness.”

Nero’s expression softened unexpectedly, despite himself. He thought of Kyrie and the helplessness he’d felt when she was snatched away from him, right through his fingers practically, and all he’d done was scream in anger. It had been a low point in his life, possibly the lowest he’d ever known. He had hated himself, the Order, the whole world for her suffering before he managed to rescue her. A part of him now actually sympathized with this warlock, who frankly seemed in an even worse position than he had been.

So yeah. He _did_ understand.

“Guess that works out for both of us, warlock,” Nero said sharply. “I’m after that jerk. Tell me what you know about him and what’s going on in this town.”

Ricardo’s expression brightened into serious determination immediately. “By the stars, if you are to fight him, I will. His name is Vergil. He is… one of the Dark Knight Sparda’s sons—“

“Wait, what did you say?” Nero snapped. “Sparda…?”

Ricardo blinked at him. “Yes. You must know the story. Sparda—“

“Yeah, yeah, I know the story, read the books, can’t wait for the movie,” Nero growled. “Are you _sure_ he’s Sparda’s son?”

“Quite certain, I’m afraid.”

Nero lay silent, staring at the wall over Ricardo’s shoulder with an angry expression. Even though he had suspected something like this, he still felt played. Dante was Sparda’s son. So was this Vergil character. They looked alike. No wonder Dante had been so adamant to warn him off. It really was personal. And if Vergil hadn’t attacked him so viciously, Nero might’ve even been tempted to respect that. But it was too late now; he had a personal score of his own to settle with Vergil and screw what Dante felt about that. Nero balled his fists – his left hand closed so tight that he felt his fingernails bite deeply into his palm.

“Are you… alright?” Ricardo ventured.

Nero snapped his gaze back at him. “Perfect. What else can you tell me?”

“I wish I could tell you where to find the fiend,” the alchemist sighed. “But he appears to be creating a slew of some sort of Hell Gates across the city. I don’t know why. They’re very strange Gates, they cannot be destroyed at their present state. I have no proof, but I am afraid that someone in the coven may be assisting him. I have been on the run from them since my defection so I have been unable to investigate whether it is an individual or whether everyone is in on it.”

“Tch, none of this is particularly helpful,” Nero groused.

“I am sorry, this is really all I know,” Ricardo said and shook his head. “There must be a—wait. Someone is approaching.”

The alchemist’s face blanched and his eyes grew wide as saucers. He shuffled away from where he stood, his eyes glued at the far side of the courtyard. Nero frowned and turned casually, to catch someone walking into the courtyard. A very tall and broad man stepped into the courtyard, carrying a large sword on his back. He was ebony-skinned, bald and clean-shaven with the darkest eyes Nero ever remembered seeing. He was dressed in a black inverness coat with faint gold trims and heavy boots that crunched against the cobblestone.

He made absolutely no effort to conceal his nature; Nero knew straight away he was a wiccan, far more powerful than the alchemist trembling behind him. He also sensed something else, a disturbingly familiar sensation.

“Ricardo de Castro,” he said in a deep bass. “You’ve gone from treason to consorting with devils.”

“N-Nicodemus,” Ricardo quivered. “No, you don’t understand. I’m trying to save the coven, we’re all—“

“Silence, alchemist,” Nicodemus boomed, approaching. “By the orders of La Alta, I am here to carry out your sentence.”

“No!” Ricardo cried in fear.

Nero snorted and with a casual sidle, put himself between the enforcer and the alchemist. “You people have a funny idea of what’s a crime in these parts,” he sneered. “Because if anyone stinks of demons, it’s you.”

Nicodemus, taller and broader than him, loomed over the young slayer with an unchanging, stony expression. “Do not meddle in this,” he said flatly. “Your fallen Order has no influence in this land, boy. The law of the coven must be obeyed.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I’m feeling like some anarchy, big guy!” Nero chuckled and drew the Red Queen.

Now Nicodemus’ face contorted into a  frown and his thick lips pursed in disdain. “Then you choose to align yourself with the traitor. Very well. I shall pass sentence unto you as well.”

Nero held out his arms mockingly. “You’re welcome to try!”

Nicodemus said nothing. He only drew his sword, a large six-footer with a dark hilt and a blade made of something white and pearlescent – to his surprise, Nero identified sharpened bone. The blade felt powerful and ancient; surely if wiccans were to have weapons, they would be imbued with magic. Nicodemus drew it from his back and brought it down in an overhead, powerful swing. Nero smirked and held up the Devil Bringer to catch the blade as he had done enough times before to grow confident in this trick.

So he was quite surprised to find that although the Devil Bringer stopped the blade, touching it burned and his knees almost buckled under him from the force of the impact.

And the next thing Nero knew, his opponent spoke something in a strange language, three slithering, creeping words and pushed against Nero’s chest with his palm.

Nero felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a canon and went _flying_. He managed to stop himself from tumbling along the ground by using the Devil Bringer to halt his momentum, clawing along the floor until he stopped on one knee.

“Huh, guess the Order was right about one thing: You warlocks really are stinkin’ cheaters! Bringing magic into a swordfight…”

He’d never actually fought a wiccan before so he found himself at a disadvantage here. He nevertheless drew his gun, aimed at his leisurely advancing opponent and after a momentary charge, fired a barrage of powerful, charged shots carrying pure demonic energy from the Devil Bringer. Nicodemus narrowed his eyes in concern and spoke a few stony words before swinging his sword ahead of him.

The blade seemed to break apart into seven pieces along its length, held together by what looked like wire. Nicodemus swung the whip sword rapidly in front of him, catching every bullet fired. The demonic power Nero had charged into the projectiles seemed to disperse in contact with the whip blade, crackling angrily against the bone that now had acquired a subtle glow.

Nero gritted his teeth. Okay, so this was going to be a little harder than he’d expected. He stood up and deftly avoided the wicked swing of the multi-part blade coming at him, though the very tip passed just half an inch away from his face. Nicodemus followed through with it by swinging yet again and started to speak a few crackling words.

Nero felt the pressure in the air around him mounting and decided to interrupt the pretty incantation. He wound his arm back and swung forward, sending the Devil Bringer’s ghostly apparition straight at Nicodemus, snatching him and throwing him clean across the courtyard, cratering him into the side of a building.

“How’s that for some fucking magic, Nicky!?” Nero scoffed with a savage grin.

Nicodemus seemed dazed for a brief moment, stuck in his spot of impact before he pulled himself out of the hole and stumbled forward. Nero determined that he’d sustained quite an injury as he limped forward and when he looked up, Nero could see a good deal of blood flowing down Nicodemus’ face.

“I see,” the ebony giant intoned. “You have quite a formidable power, boy.”

Nero shrugged nonchalantly. “Feel like getting beat up some more or ready to call it quits?”

Instead of an answer, Nicodemus flicked his sword, forcing it to reform into a solid blade, and planted its tip into the ground with a harsh move. He remained in that stance, resting against the sword and for a second Nero believed that he would surrender. But then he felt the tug of foreign powers and saw the light crackles of energy over the enforcer’s body. He cussed under his breath and surged forward, readying his sword for a blow, trying to interrupt it.

Nicodemus suddenly threw his head back, arching his body as a red wave of power exploded outwards from him, halting Nero in his steps as he raised the Devil Bringer to shield his face.

When the energies settled at last, Nero had to react quickly, ducking under a particularly vicious swing of the whip blade. The weapon crackled with red energy and after missing him, struck a column of the courtyard and obliterated it with one blow.

“Hah, so that’s what you really look like, Nicky!” Nero scoffed.

Nicodemus’ now much larger form towered over Nero, still human enough, but with a monstrous, or rather, demonic cast in his features, starting from the gnarled, curled horns that had grown along his skull, to his blazing red eyes to the now tattered state of his coat and clothes, torn to accommodate his growth in size, crackling with power.

Nero then had to dodge yet another wicked swing of the blade that gouged a deep trench into the cobblestone as it passed. He launched the Devil Bringer’s spectre at him again but Nicodemus countered it with a series of scratchy, flinty words. Nero blurted a yell of pain and the spectre of the demonic arm faded abruptly as a shooting pain ran through the limb. He was reminded of the awful sensation of pain when he fought Vergil, but fortunately this was far less intense than that had been. After it staggered him, Nero managed to shake it off, feeling the burst of demonic power from his arm rebelling against the attempted restraint.

But not before he took a direct hit from the blade to the chest and was knocked clean across the courtyard. He rolled onto his feet and lunged at Nicodemus immediately, determined to not allow that behemoth to utter another word. The Red Queen clashed savagely with the whip sword in a furious torrent of blows punctuated by the cracks of Nero’s gun as they moved around each other in a dance of death.

Nero finally nailed the timing in using the Devil Bringer to stop Nicodemus from applying his witchcraft and succeeded in getting in several heavy hits with the sword, culminating in a vicious hit from the Devil Bringer that saw Nicodemus being thunderously crushed to the ground. They caused as much damage to their impromptu arena as they did to each other. Nero gnashed his teeth despite his wide grin because his mounting anger and the thrill of the fight were starting to get to his head.

In the end they gave him an edge. He hit harder than Nicodemus and finally found his pace, raining furious blow after blow upon the demonic warlock, avoiding the confusing patterns of the whip-blade and occasionally managing to sneak a shot or two in. Every time Nicodemus attempted to use witchcraft, Nero would let the Devil Bringer do the heavy lifting, interrupting the incantations and tearing through any spell the warlock tried.

It was a revved up diagonal blow from the Red Queen that sealed Nicodemus’ fate at last. Nero surged forward with the sword roaring in his hand, swinging hard and catching the segmented sword as it was reforming into a straight blade again. The impact was so hard that the bone sword split in two, the interior mechanism that held it together tearing apart. Nero’s blade kept going and buried itself into Nicodemus’ chest, cutting a massive gash that spurted a terrible amount of blood.

Nero’s momentum carried them forward and crashed them into a statue standing in the middle of the courtyard that so far had somehow been completely spared by their combat. Nicodemus’ back smashed into it, breaking it apart before he was halted at last, slumping against the statue’s now lopsided base.

“So what was that about a sentence, warlock?” Nero growled through gritted teeth.

“Fool,” Nicodemus uttered weakly and smiled sardonically at him, his teeth stained with blood that flowed freely from his mouth.

His entire form flickered with weak crackles of energy and Nero felt the enforcer’s power fading rapidly. Not just because he was dying, it was as though he’d just run out.

“You sprung to the damned tinker’s defence without knowing,” the man wheezed. “Who do you think granted me this power without staining my soul with the will of demons?”

Nero’s grin fell. He looked behind him and then cast his glance around the courtyard. Ricardo was gone. Sure, Nero could reasonably assume that he’d fled in fear for his safety but something in his gut told him that he’d been played like a fiddle.

“Damn it!” Nero spat.

Nicodemus laughed bitterly, more blood spraying from his mouth as his body gradually grew limp. “That pathetic scholar would never have the gall to defy La Alta, his own mother, had he not found a source of power for himself… and we taught him how to do it. Haha, I suppose… I am… as foolish as you…”

Nero stepped away from the crumbled body, pulling his sword back and returning it to its place. The wiccan enforcer was now dead, the demonic form almost entirely faded with only glimpses of it found in the torn skin, the remaining, brittle horns and the warped body shape. He felt little to no demonic energy anymore – and he wondered, if what Nicodemus said was true, why the heck hadn’t he sensed anything demonic from Ricardo?

For once in a long time, he felt very unhappy with the outcome of a victory. He’d gained absolutely nothing from this, except a shred of knowledge and some bad news. He wondered if Dante knew about the coven’s meddling with demons and whether this meant that Vergil had anything to do with them.

He strode away from his fallen opponent, trying to convince himself that at least he was satisfied to know the name of the bastard he was going to beat up for attacking him. He was just about to cross under an arch and leave the courtyard entirely when he sensed something. He whipped around suddenly with his gun drawn, trying to pinpoint the source of the feeling. He knew he was sensing a wiccan, one that was trying to conceal their presence but he could still pick up on their signature.

He was slightly surprised to find it felt clean from demonic taint.

Nero finally spotted the movement above him – someone was running on the rooftops, feet clattering on the terracotta tiles in a staccato of movement. Nero cursed; the sun was in his eyes and he only saw a lithe figure ducking around a chimneypot, donning a black, short coat with a hood.

“Hey!” Nero blurted, darting after them and firing a shot for their legs.

The figure disappeared in a blur of haze, his shot hitting nothing, just to reappear a few feet ahead, still running. The figure finally turned their head to look back at him. All Nero could clearly see under the hood was a flash of red hair, very pale skin and delicate features. He was chasing after a woman.

He jumped, kicking off a wall and using the Devil Bringer to grab onto a projecting cornice of a building and pulled himself up, landing onto the terracotta rooftops himself. He ran after her, but the woman glanced back and just as he launched the Devil Bringer’s spectral hand again to snatch her, the woman shouted three breathy words. Nero felt as though he’d punched a concrete wall and the surge of the Devil Bringer halted suddenly, colliding with a spectral wall of glowing circles and symbols. Ahead of him, the woman’s shape blurred and disappeared again, reappearing on a roof ahead of them while Nero was forced into a halt by the wall of runes, trying once again in vain to punch through it.

Whoever she was, this woman was a potent witch to stop him so casually. She actually stopped briefly at the edge of a roof and looked back at him momentarily before she jumped off the roof to the street below, vanishing from sight. Seconds later, the wall of symbols faded gently, allowing Nero to reach the edge where she’d jumped off, although he knew that he had no hope of finding her. He couldn’t sense her anymore.

“Well shit,” Nero muttered, looking down from the roof.

The distance to the ground was short, a regular human could’ve handled it easily, but in the short time it took him to reach the end of the roof, she’d vanished.

Nero put away his gun and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand thoughtfully. He was dead certain he’d seen this woman before. He couldn’t remember clearly but while he lay on the ground, drifting into blackness after Vergil’s attack, someone had crouched over him. He now remembered the soothing, musical words and the red flash under a deep hood. Just before he drifted off, all the pain from whatever it was that was trying to crawl into him had rapidly faded.

He was very puzzled and angry at the same time. Even though this woman had clearly done _something_ back then that had helped him, she still was some kind of follower of Vergil’s. In losing this chance to catch her, he’d lost an opportunity to get some actual information out of her. He recalled something Ricardo had said that just made him wonder more: Could this be the person he had been referring to when he said that Vergil had her in his grip?

Irritated, Nero looked around, across the clay-coloured rooftops and the uneven horizon of buildings to try and decide where he ought to head to next. Tracking down either the damned alchemist or this woman were his best bets to find Vergil. Trouble was he wasn’t sure where to begin.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he finally makes an appearance.

Tess’ heart pounded hard in her chest as she ran. The moment her feet had touched the cobblestone after her jump from the roof, she had employed the most complex concealment spells that she knew to hide from Nero. It was a little absurd that he’d managed to track them all the way to Amaro. She was glad that he had survived the ordeal Vergil subjected him to months ago, that his aura was free of that corruption that tried to get a hold of him. But she wished he would’ve stayed away. She could not afford to let him – to let _anyone_ follow her.

She’d seen the kid’s fight with Nicodemus. Cursing under her breath again, she ducked into another alley. Nero had spared her a great deal of trouble, saving her from having to fight the coven’s enforcer herself. It made her life a bit easier that way. Killing Nicodemus would’ve been a hard task – not just doing it, but living with it. It would be another murder on her hands, having to think of all the times Nicodemus had been quietly kind to her in the past. She bit her lips together, wracked with guilt.

_I am so sorry, Nicodemus… So sorry. But it’s better that I didn’t have to do it._

She slowed down a little, tugging the deep hood of her black coat deeper over her head and tucking her red hair back to keep it out of sight. She couldn’t afford to be seen. She had to focus but was constantly distracted by the oppressive air of the town, the tension that hung in the air. She knew what it was and it made her shudder every time she allowed herself to contemplate it too deeply. But something had changed, something had shifted. There was something awfully and inexplicably familiar in the powers hanging over the city. She tried to discern it, so much so that she allowed it to distract her.

Tess turned into a street and stopped with a gasp.

“There! She’s there! Halt!”

She ran. She had managed to stumble across a concealed group of the coven’s enforcers. Not the elite, not like Nicodemus, thank the stars. If it had been them, she might not even have had a chance to flee. Regina’s personal guard were terrors to behold – and only she could see why.

“Stop her!”

“Murderer!”

Tess cringed. She felt their incantations tear at her concealment wards. She didn’t want to fight them. She could easily do so, just… just make a stand and wipe them all out. But she couldn’t do it, her heart couldn’t take that. Besides, it would compromise everything.

She leaped over a low wall, darting through a private garden and over the wall on the other side, clambering easily over the wooden fence. She muttered incantations for new wards quietly, allowing the subtle energies to flow and lock where they should, hiding her, making her signature fade from the world, retreat into herself and staying away from the prodding feelers of the coven members pursuing her.

 _The town is so quiet. Everyone must be hiding,_ she thought.

Why would they be hiding? What had the coven told them? What had the coven _done_?

Tess inhaled sharply through her teeth and dodged to the side, teleporting herself a foot ahead of her intended course. Just enough to dodge the binding circle that appeared where she had stood not a second earlier. The enforcers were after her again, she hadn’t lost them. She belted a stanza of little, fleshy words, setting up circles of her own on the ground to slow them, to disrupt their clinging webs of spells. Ahead of her the gleaming, nearly invisible threads of a barrier twinkled in the light, visible only to her.

“Fuck,” she breathed and holding her hand out and ahead of her, shouted three hard words.

There was no sound, no fury, no fireworks, just a sense of roaring impact, something huge colliding against a wall, pressing hard and finally breaching through, the sensation of shattering glass. With the barrier that was designed to stop her crushed, she skidded into a very narrow little alley between two buildings, with the screaming of the pursuing enforcers on her tail.

Her sides ached, lungs burning from the pressure of breathing while running for her life. She surged through the tiny alley, barely wide enough to accommodate her own slender build and then burst out of the other side like a bird rushing through an opened cage.

She nearly collided with someone. She saw red; red clothes, red aura – a streak of white and the gleam of a blade. She knew him.

“No!” she blurted.

“Tess?!”

Tess looked over her shoulder as she dashed past Dante; she had to make sure. She saw the unlikeliest expression on his face, his icy blue eyes peeled wide, slightly slack-jawed and so dumbstruck that he was left frozen and – oh miracle of miracles! Speechless. For once he had nothing to say, he just watched her run away, confused. Her chest ached, this time with a mix of surprise, anger and sadness. Her head screamed. That was what had changed. She was sensing _him_. What on earth was he doing here?! He shouldn’t be here!

The mind often latches onto absurd thoughts in the middle of a crisis, trying to protect itself. She was amazed at her own non-sequitur.

_Fuck. He’s gotten really big._

“There she is!”

“Seize the murderer!”

“Stop! Traitor!”

“Murderer!”

The enforcers came at her from the other alleys. She ran away from Dante, gritting her teeth and forcing herself into a series of short-burst teleports, picking her starting points so that her exit points were obscured from their line of sight, creating barrier wards and red herrings in the maze of alleys of Amaro. She hoped that Dante wouldn’t follow – and she made sure of that by putting up an extra layer of wards on herself to hide from him specifically. It was easy; years of hiding had sharpened her skills with concealment beyond what could be expected from a witch her age. It was an absolute necessity that she evaded her pursuers.

Tess lost them, eventually, tricking them into going in circles as she fled up the mountain-side, further from Amaro’s centre, towards the rural, wilder region of the town. Amaro had once flourished before the Black Death had swept across it like a raking hand. Then came the fire in the midst of the plague and the town never quite recovered. The old nerve center of the town, the fortified keep and the houses of the nobility and wealthy merchants, withered. The civic heart of Amaro moved down the mountain, towards the water – ironically, where the plague had come from, brought by merchant ships from across the sea. The new town formed around the port.

The old town further up the mountain, once the residence of wealthy and prosperous had not been quite so lucky. The fire and disease hit it the hardest and ravaged it so thoroughly that people gave up on it. So many buildings had been abandoned that many still lay forlorn and in ruin, empty shells of their former selves, never reclaimed. The roofs of most had long since fallen in, opening them like clamshells to the ravages of time and weather. Walls had crumbled, creating gaping holes like the mouths of corpses. The trees here had grown rampantly, from inside the deserted buildings, around them and over them as if nature wanted to voraciously reclaim what was hers and hide what had been.

This is where Tess stopped, thumping her back against an aged stone wall that still stood strong enough, to breathe. Her chest heaved as she drew in breath in long gulps and her heart beat so fast she feared it really would burst out of her chest.

_This is awful. First Nero, now Dante! Why the hell are you here? I’m happy as hell to see you but **why are you here**?! Why now?!_

“Shit!”

She hissed and locked her fingers behind her head in frustration for a few moments, trying to calm herself. Then she bent forward, pressing her hands on her knees and cursed everything indiscriminately, Dante and Nero included.

“Dumb idiots!” she muttered. “Why do they have to go after every damn little thing that comes on their radar?! Why can’t they just… leave it alone…”

Her neck hurt. She shuddered from the pain of it, standing up straight and palming her face with both hands, trying to calm down, to force herself to relax so that it wouldn’t get worse. She took deep breaths, counted to ten and felt the tightness begin to relax a little, but not completely. Never completely.

Tess pushed away from the wall and moved on, through the old town and up towards the cliffs that hung so precariously over the water, looming over the town’s port like a bad omen. Once a fortified outpost that stood watch against pirates and invasions, it now lay in ruins, abandoned and overgrown. She vaulted over a broken section of the perimeter wall as usual and walked wearily towards it. She passed right through a multitude of very complex wards and shields set up around the fort, designed to keep everyone unwanted at bay. They were masterful wards, utterly undetectable unless you knew to look for them.

Once she was in them, she shivered. The air here was oppressive and thick with demonic powers. She brought her hands up and rubbed her arms uneasily. It was a puzzle as much as it was a feat that she hadn’t been affected by them all this time. She reached the half-crumbling walls of the old castle, fighting back the urge to flee from the awful atmosphere of the place. She pulled back some hanging ivy and opened a positively ancient wooden door. It groaned heavily and opened just enough for her to squeeze through.

Most of the old fort had surrendered to the elements long ago. Two trees, one in the old courtyard and another growing from what could have been a muster, forced their roots through the foundations in their quest for space as they grew ever taller. The northern wing had survived a bit better.

Besides, the wards held it together well enough.

No one would’ve suspected that this old ruin had been used by the castellans as a place to worship and commune with demons.

The air inside the ancient halls was stale and damp. She finally pulled her hood down and scurried along the corridor, once hung with tapestries and paintings, decked with works of Renaissance art and furnished with all the accoutrements of a functioning keep of the time.

All that remained were molding tatters, crumbling plaster and stains from mildew, moss and moisture. The only remotely habitable part of it, the tower, was in slightly better condition. One could even recognize the patterns on the carpets and make use of the antique furniture. She climbed up the spiraling staircase, one hand braced to the wall all the while, because the damn staircase was steep and there was hardly enough light coming in from the cracks that passed as windows.

She stopped at a landing and hesitated before a door. She ought to go in but something felt… wrong. She put her hand against it and knocked, then abruptly jumped back; the shout started low, as an indignant bellow but gradually rose to a savage pitch of fury and confusion, like a wounded animal. There was the angry crunch of wood being shattered and the grinding of stone striking another stone surface. She backed away and nearly tumbled down the staircase in her haste to get away from the door just before a loud thud rattled it so hard she thought it would splinter. The foul energies coming from the room made her feel sick and made her vision swim.

Tess whispered a few silent words, wrapping herself tighter with concealment wards and curled on a step against the wall, staring at the door warily, wishing she could get further away before her neck started to ache again. She sat there, listening to her thundering heart and her anxious breathing, trying to ignore the noises of agony and rage coming from behind the door. Demonic power rolled out of the room in invisible yet palpable waves that made her skin crawl.

She shut her eyes and covered her ears, hoping that it would pass like all the others had. _He’s having another attack,_ she thought.

It sounded like a battlefield in there. She nearly shrieked as the staircase shuddered from the force of a sudden impact, accompanied by another terrible bellow, a wrathful roar somewhere between human and demonic. She pressed her back against the wall harder and waited, the tension causing her to pull her coat tighter around her and squeeze her hands around the hems nervously.

Gradually the grunts and bellows lessened and there were no more sounds of impact or destruction coming through the walls. Even then she wouldn’t budge. She stared carefully at the door, trying to listen to what was going on within, but not daring to approach it yet. It felt like she was waiting for hours and hours.

“Come here.”

She gulped hard at the command that, at long last, came through the wooden door, clear enough but strained.

She scrambled to her feet and climbed up the stairs again to the landing, putting her hand on the door hesitantly. The energies in the room beyond still felt overwhelming. She forced her face into a relaxed, blank state and took a deep breath to stop her trembling. But if she kept him waiting she’d be putting herself in a lot more trouble.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, rigid and unmoved. She closed the door behind her and took exactly three steps into the room, close enough to speak but far enough to keep from inviting his anger.

“Is something… wrong?” he said.

He sounded tired – and _angry_ that he was tired. His voice was so eerily quiet in the large room. She glanced at one side of it and winced. That side of the room was where he forced himself to when these attacks overtook him so he could lash out freely and take it out on the old masonry. The stone walls displayed awful gouges like the claws of a massive animal and the bigger, longer gashes in the stone left by the strikes of a sword. There was blood spattered on the floor and splinters of wood strewn about from what used to be a wooden chair. A piece of masonry, torn off the wall, lay very close to the door she’d just entered through – a door that now sported a sizeable dent that had splintered where the stone impacted.

By contrast, the other end of the room was almost opulent, furnished for a lord with a canopied bed – one that he hardly ever slept in – a high-backed, velvet chair and rows of bookshelves stocked with arcane tomes that even the coven would’ve envied. Somehow all of that had been spared from the fury of his episodes.

Her tone was carefully flat and even. “No, Master. But there have been some unforeseen developments.”

Vergil, slumped in the chair on the other end of the room, famously scoffed. The sound was so foreign, coming from him that she nearly flinched in confusion. He looked awful; he gripped his sword in one hand but his grip was weak and his posture weary.

“Unforeseen… Is that not a little rich, coming from you?” he sneered.

She knew that he detested her ability to see the unseen because she could see what was wrong with him. His aura was as plain to her as everyone’s and it looked… sick. The brilliant azure aura, marbled with white should’ve danced about him with vigour and the boundless energy of a half-demon of his calibre. Instead, it hung around him, limp and muddy; restrained. Threads of a sickly red-grey spilled from his eyes like tears and spread across it like spider-webs. Sometimes these webs shifted like hands raking across the aura, making it shudder and spasm.

It was worst during his attacks, when the webs swelled and bored their way through his aura, trying to spread across his skin and drill into his head.

Nobody else saw these symptoms; only she could. She had seen what they did to him and seen what caused them. It had been a gradual understanding on her part. He never actually conversed with her. But sometimes, in what must have been moments of detestable weakness to him, he would ask her questions. His guard would drop and his questions gave her hints. Little things, which her naturally inquisitive mind would turn over and over and connect because she had little else to do.

But it had been her damned power that nearly got her killed – another reason he loathed it as much as it intrigued him. It happened when he’d found out that Nero had possession of his sword, Yamato. In his rage, his power had responded and flared, spreading thick and grasping tendrils everywhere. She was right there and it had set her power off, suffocating and forcing her to look into the past. All she saw were disjointed fragments, skewed pictures and blurry facts. The smothering presence of a deep and dark power that pressed against the very fabric of what was real and what was not, hanging heavily over his head and staring out of three horrible, blazing eyes.

Confusing and elusive but truthful all the same, that’s just how her power worked. She could never make sense of what she saw but had never found any way to doubt their veracity.

And he knew that she had seen it, the moment she recovered from the trance, when he had calmed down. He knew and it infuriated him, a quiet, deadly fury. She was certain that she was done for; terrified that he’d end her then and there with his bare hands. But he didn’t. He just ordered her out of his sight and warned her that if she ever prodded again he’d kill her. Something stayed his hand and it was nothing wholesome like mercy.

She didn’t dignify his sneer with an answer. “Nicodemus of the coven is dead, Master, as you instructed,” she reported crisply. “But… it was not I who ended him.”

Vergil looked up over his fingers, with a dark expression. He didn’t look at her – that would be paying her too much attention, treating her as something worth speaking to. She maintained her blank, empty expression, watching his eyes narrow, red irises on black. He stood up, brushing his bone-white hair back with his hand. His face was white too, except for the horrible cracks – like a damaged porcelain doll, she often thought of him.

He adjusted his necktie. “Is that so? Get to the point.”

She gulped, expecting him to fly into a rage. “Both Nero and Dante have come to Amaro. Nero confronted Nicodemus.”

And suddenly, she had his complete attention. He turned his head and faced her, staring right at her, right _through_ her. Her words seemed to have an effect on him, he paused, considerably. She looked right back, her face giving away nothing; no fear, no worry. Faltering now could have dire consequences.

“Are they, now…” he muttered. “Interesting. That changes things.”

Tess nearly wanted to scream at him for his utterly casual attitude. She would’ve preferred it if he had lashed out at her, tried to kill her – she’d know how to react to _that_. But his detached apathy was killing her. She expected him to grow angry at Nero’s survival, to grow furious at Dante being there. Because the rare times Dante’s name happened to drop within his earshot, Tess could see a faint contortion in his face and more importantly, a rage stirring within his aura, which nothing else could bring out.

All she could do was wait. Standing there like a servant awaiting dismissal or new orders.

Surely enough, after looking away from her, out the only window of the room for an inordinately long time, he flicked his icy red gaze at her.

“I have a new task for you, then,” he said dryly.

 _As always,_ she thought. _I’m an automaton that follows orders. I do the things that are insignificant, beneath him. He won’t tell me to go fight Dante, for instance. No, that’s too important and too personal._

She was so dejected that she blurted out her impertinent question before she could stop herself. “Am I to cloud the coven’s suspicions or has someone else become unpleasant in your eyes, Master?”

She shut her mouth even though internally she was cursing. How could she let herself lose it like that and mouth off?! Surely he glared at her sharply and a twitch of anger crossed his features. Her neck throbbed painfully, forcing a wince from her. Perhaps he’d consider her impertinence important enough to destroy her at last.

He didn’t. He just scowled darkly at her. “You’ll keep that sharp little tongue to yourself,” he stated dryly. “Go to the coven. Enter the catacombs beneath the coven and bring me the _Tome of Rites_. Don’t look so surprised, I know you’re perfectly aware of its existence. Bring it to me. I don’t care if you lose an arm for it. Kill, if you have to. I will not tolerate any excuse or failure.”

Normally, a direct order would elicit a deadpan ‘Yes, Master’, from her and she’d walk away to accomplish it.

But this time it was very different. Her composure, so carefully crafted as to not anger him, faltered. Her eyes widened in fear and she stared in incredulity. Even as her neck throbbed again, the pain becoming unbearable, she was rooted on the spot. The very name of the book sent an ugly creep down her back. For the second time in the span of a few minutes, her mouth ran unchecked, bringing her hand to her neck in a futile effort to try and ease the pain.   

“No,” she blurted. “You… you can’t be serious. Vergil, do you understand how dangerous that book is? Nobody can control what it hides in its pages. Not you, not whoever works with you –It’s destroyed _all_ who sought to use it, it’s—“

She was suffocating. Vergil had suddenly crossed the space between them in a mere two strides, his power expanding like a wrathful beast, crashing into her and pressing against her, barely held in check. He towered over her, his hand wrapped around her neck so tight he could’ve snapped her bones with a mere twitch.

“Do _not_ question my command.” His voice had dropped to a deadly sotto. His eyes were almost crazed, glaring at her as closely as he was. “Your concerns mean nothing. You will obey my command and _never_ question me again. Is that clear?”

She made a choked noise. He pushed her away harshly, letting go of her neck with the same motion.

“Now get out of my sight and do not return until you have it.”

She gasped for air, terrified and backed away in a hurry. She fought against her fear; showing him her terror might make him decide that she was no longer worth keeping alive. She stepped back, fighting every instinct to run.

“Y-yes, Master. I understand. It will be done,” she managed, bowing her head and backing towards the door.

He had already turned away, looking out at the window, his face already fixed in a patient scowl. She left the room and closed the door behind her. She stumbled down a few steps of the staircase before her knees gave out and she was forced to sit. She brought her hands to her face, bracing her elbows against her knees.

This was a nightmare. It had to be. Vergil was not mad, as she could’ve rightfully assumed if anyone else had asked her the same thing.

 _Vergil must know exactly what that book contains, he just doesn’t care,_ she thought. _And whoever works with him doesn’t, either. Who told him about the book?_

The entire request was suicide.

The Tome of Rites… it was the Rosengard coven’s dark and terrible secret: A grimoire written by demons, a tool to corrupt wiccans and bring them into the demons’ fold. A book full of secrets and promises, little spells and incantations that could break the world to pieces and reshape it for the pleasure of the wiccan possessing it. It could lure people in, find their weaknesses, insert innocent little hooks and then reel its hapless, power-mad victims into insanity and finally into Hell. How the coven had come to possess this book was a mystery. Nobody knew how or why, just that it was buried deep under the coven’s sanctum and there it must stay because it couldn’t be destroyed.

The coven was _terrified_ of it.

And yet… Tess knew better. She knew that someone had been using the Tome. Someone had given in. It was evident in the state of many wiccans, the slow corruption seeping into their auras, the scent of demons tainting them. Nicodemus and his fellow enforcers were prime examples. But it made sense, now.

Infiltrating the sanctum was madness, especially now that they had been undoubtedly been put on guard by Nicodemus’ death, not to mention her year-long attempts to gradually chip away at their defenses. No wonder Vergil had ordered her to kill the enforcer. He was the one tasked with guarding the catacombs when Regina wasn’t sending him after enemies of the coven. But there were still three more of her enforcers left – all of them infused with demonic powers that they kept hidden from all but her sight. Tess couldn’t hope to beat them all unless she somehow managed to pick them off one by one. She also had no idea what was down in the coven’s catacombs. The story was that they contained the remains of past High Priests and Priestesses. But everyone suspected that there were also potent, terrible things down there specifically to protect the Tome of Rites.

She started to panic.

“What am I going to do…?” she whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I…I don’t know how.”

She was trembling. Her mind drifted to Dante and she shut her eyes, fighting away the hot, stinging sensation of the desire to cry. She wanted help but she did _not_ want to involve him. He deserved better, not to get embroiled in whatever insanity his brother was planning.

“Tess…?”

Tess gasped and looked up, startled.

“Ricardo? What are you doing—don’t go up to him now, he’s… he’s really angry,” she blurted, looking at the alchemist.

Ricardo looked awful. Since his defection from the coven, several years ago, he’d lost an unhealthy amount of weight and always looked like he would keel over as his puzzling illness lingered on. She’d watched him stagger on through the use of his distillations and alchemical crafts. But now he looked like he’d been through a very rough patch, his clothes were worn and his hair was even more of a mess than usual. He had bruises on his face and hands.

“I’ve no reason to go tend to Vergil now,” he said flatly. “He no longer really needs me and I know it. He’s more or less fully recovered. For once I am ashamed my arts have had such a positive effect. Are you… alright?”

She stared back at him blankly, screaming at herself to get up and walk away. Instead, he crouched down in front of her, an anxious expression fixed on his face.

“He told you to get him the Tome of Rites, didn’t he,” he said.

Tess flinched hard. “How do you know!?”

Ricardo grabbed her by the arms and lifted her off the step, glancing at the shut door. “Not here. Come with me,” he said firmly and despite his frail build, half-hauled her down the staircase to the ground floor.

“I’ve always suspected the Tome was his ultimate goal here,” he explained as they distanced themselves from the room.

Ricardo passed his arm over her shoulders, but she gently shrugged it off. It made things… complicated. He looked at her sharply and Tess ignored it. It was too late for him to be making these kinds of gestures.

“Why?” 

“It… makes sense, I suppose. With the Tome’s history and purported contents and what we know of him,” Ricardo sighed. “I… may know a little more than you about its contents. I’m ashamed to say why—“

“So I _was_ right. Regina,” Tess said flatly.

Ricardo nodded. “Yes. Mother has… given in, I’m afraid.”

“But it was _you_ who tainted Nicodemus and the rest of her guard,” she accused him. “You’re doing exactly what the Order of the Sword did.”

He scoffed. “I’d like to think my methods are more refined. I only did it at her demand, you know. That was the last straw, anyway.”

Tess shook her head. “That’s why you defected.”

“Yes. Tess, I am so sorry. I have made a tragic mistake—“

“Oh shut up, Ricardo,” she said sharply. “Don’t play the innocent with me. The only reason you fell in with Vergil and whoever’s holding his leash is because you want to screw Regina over. You think Vergil gives a shit about all that?”

Ricardo looked at her incredulously. All the nervous twitching and anxious posturing deserted him entirely. He looked away and straightened out his shabby tie. “Observant as ever,” he said, smiling. “I’ve always appreciated that about you.”

“I take it you’re here to help me get in the coven,” she stated dryly.

“Yes. There are a few ways to infiltrate the sanctum that most don’t know about. Bypassing the wards protecting them will be child’s play for a witch of your caliber.”

“Don’t flatter me, Ricardo,” she snapped. “This… this doesn’t change anything.”

“On the contrary. It changes everything. Because this is very likely where both of us could die, my dear,” he retorted. “Now let’s go. The coven is in uproar and it’s the perfect time to slip past them.”

Tess scowled at him but followed him out of the fort all the same. She had no choice if she wanted the damnable pain to just stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If you're reading this as part of a completed work, I have something very important to tell you! 1. THANK YOU! 2. This is your mandatory rest stop. Drink some water, get up, stretch, then go to sleep and come back in the morning. It'll still be here ;)


	5. Chapter 5

Vergil stared out the window but was really looking at his reflection on the glass. He was fully aware of the alchemist’s presence in the keep but had no interest in him. If he wanted to involve himself in the infiltration, it was his problem. He’d specifically ordered Tess to kill if she had to and if he interfered in any way, she’d be obliged to go through with it.

He traced the dark lines etched on his face once more, as he’d done countless times already. It was a sight and a sensation that infuriated him, to be so close to freedom and to his own free will and yet to still feel the tug at the back of his mind, hanging about his brain like cobwebs. Never once had he actually regretted that deal, only the ‘fine writing’ that he had arrogantly overlooked. His head throbbed and he frowned.

His earlier attack had left him winded and another, renewed assault upon his will and consciousness now loomed over him if he gave an inch.

Vergil loathed this sensation, something always gnawing at the back of his mind, Mundus’ call weak but still lingering long after the demon king had been sealed away once more – a detestable irony that he had Dante to thank for that. In ’killing’ him and forcing Mundus back into exile, Dante had severely damaged whatever it was that kept Vergil tethered to him.

He shut his eyes and attempted to meditate in order to mitigate the tug he felt but something was distracting him, not allowing him to empty his mind. Dante’s presence in Amaro was… troubling. Inevitable, for sure, but all the same Vergil didn’t want him here. No doubt Dante had grown in skill and strength since their last fateful meeting, whereas Vergil was severely weakened. It enraged him to think about it, but he could not hope to face Dante on an equal footing yet. He could sense his sibling’s presence in the city faintly and it only served to agitate him.

He brought his hand up to his forehead, trying to force the thoughts out of his mind so that he might meditate but to no avail. Anger was eating at him. He longed to meet with Dante, to engage him in combat again, to finally determine where they stood.

Vergil grunted and dropped to a knee suddenly. The pain in his head peaked; he could feel the fire in his skull and the pain behind his eyes. The cacophony of voices raged, a singular bellow rising above the rest, calling him by name and the name he had once been known. His grip around the Yamato’s scabbard tightened, his already pale knuckles blanching from the pressure. His anger was providing this creeping sickness with a stepping stone to his innermost keep.

He realized he had been staring at his reflection in the window throughout this, feeling disgust at his own visage for showing him his weakness. The cracks seared into his skin burned. He finally staggered away from the window, needing to get way from his reflection. He made it to the other end of the room, the savaged corner where he suffered everything and fell to his knees with a furious bellow.

“I… am Vergil…” he muttered. “I am… the son of Sparda. I am not… not a puppet. I am not… Nelo… Angelo… I am Vergil. _I am Vergil_.”

Even as he repeated this mantra he felt the sickness coming over him, the bellowing in his head growing louder. He slammed his fist into the floor, rattling the very room. His power surged, flaring into the open as if leaking from an open wound. A mass of gleaming, blue ethereal swords materialized around him, hovering tremulously.

No, he had to focus. The bellow in his head would demand revenge, make him attack himself in his rage, but he had to resist. Vergil roared in frustration, sensing the change he was resisting. But he looked down at his hands and watched impotently as his form shifted like static on a screen, between his true self and the loathsome form of Nelo Angelo. Mundus’ puppet knight. Mundus’ petty little revenge. Mundus’ lapdog.

The swords surged and Vergil’s body was wracked by pain as blow after blow staggered him. Before all the swords could impale him, he reared back and bellowed in fury, gripping Yamato. He drew the blade and with speed that would be lost to eyes of mere mortals, he shattered every sword still around him. Dropping the sword, he pressed his hands against his head and fought back, screaming the entire time. He gnashed his teeth so furiously that he savaged his own lips without knowing it, not even feeling the blood streaming down his chin before the wounds healed themselves.

“MUNDUS!” he bellowed. “ _MUNDUS_!”

It took him a few more moments to regain his sense of self properly, to prevail over the disease of Nelo Angelo still lingering within him. He managed to quiet Mundus’ grip, a poisonous hook in his mind. It left him breathless, piled on the floor against the wall he’d further gouged and cracked, trying to breathe. He hated this helplessness. It was so… so _human_.

“I… am Vergil. Son of Sparda. I am Vergil. Not Nelo Angelo. Not a puppet,” he reaffirmed stubbornly, gritting his teeth. “ _I. Am. Vergil_.”

He stayed there for a few more moments to recover, before standing up again, wearily. He sheathed Yamato properly after inspecting it for any damage or corruption. He brushed his hair back off his face with his hand and straightened his necktie. Finally he slowly made his way to the chair and collapsed in it, still trying to control the frantic thrum in his chest. He remained there for a few long minutes of utter silence, palming his face. He must be patient, he told himself. It wouldn’t be long now. So long as nothing interfered.

He looked up when the faint change in the air occurred. He frowned, his nose wrinkling in distaste as the subtle flow of energy heralded the arrival of his unwelcome, forced partner in this endeavour.

Her husky voice had an unnerving, inhuman sweetness to it that Vergil could hardly stand. “This latest attack was particularly potent,” said the woman. “Even though Ricardo’s treatment has greatly lessened their impact.”

“I no longer need that worm’s tinctures,” Vergil sneered. “He can peddle his distillations of life force and demonic powers elsewhere. Once he’s fulfilled what little he can offer to this last step, I will be rid of him.”

She appeared out of thin air, as if she walked out of the stones of the ruin, gliding past him with the rush of old cloth.

“Now, now, do not disparage the little alchemist, Vergil,” she purred. “He will be dealt with, in time, and you need not lift even a finger. Show some gratitude. He brought you Dante, after all.”

Vergil gave her a wild glare, not appreciating her little contemptuous barb.

“I do not take kindly to duplicity and treason, witch,” he snapped. “I have tasted it enough.”

“You knew this already, Vergil,” she said firmly. “I explained everything to you when we started this endeavour. You know how it will go. He will meet his end. His own obsession with the girl will doom him. He believes he’s brought your defeat with Dante, but he’s only hastened his own demise. I have foreseen it.”

Vergil glared at her from under furrowed eyebrows. The long, soot-coloured cloak and robes that wrapped her body floated as if buoyed up by an unseen power, ragged and torn from time, hanging in baggy folds. Particles of dark, trembling dust seemed to precipitate off her in waves as she moved. She moved to fold her hands over her lap; bone-white, withered limbs with dark nails, long and sharp, appeared from the folds of her robes. Her face was obscured by a hood pulled deep over her head that hid her face but for the faint twin glows of amber that peeked under it and the flash of an eerily pale, thin chin. Grey, ropy hair escaped form the hood and hung limply around her face.

“But I see her haughtiness has begun to prick even you,” she carried on. “You very nearly killed her a few moments ago. You did it again some months prior when she experienced that vision. You must rein your anger in, Vergil.”

“She’s a headstrong brat,” he muttered. “All she does is resist and play the obedient servant. She stalls everything and pries what is not for her to know. But you were correct about her power; hardly anything escapes her. She suspects your presence.”

He didn’t want to admit that he hated the way Tess looked at him because he knew she saw everything under his veneer of self-control. She could see he was coming apart at the seams and it enraged him. She knew things about him and Dante that were intensely private, strictly between the brothers. Not everything, certainly, but enough to make him angry.

“Let her,” the woman replied. “It doesn’t matter. She will be dead soon enough,” she observed. “Are you still troubled? I warned you that your brother would become involved. Do not worry yourself. This hastening of the plan will not harm it. Unless you believe that his interference will.”

Vergil grunted. She was loathsome in her entirety, this Ragged Lady, as she called herself. How he wanted to destroy her. But he wanted his freedom even more.

“No,” he deadpanned. “In fact, I prefer he be here. There are… matters we need to settle, when I am ready.”

“Very well,” she intoned and inclined her head gently. “’Tis a thing I understand well.”

“Do you, now,” he sneered. He finally turned and faced her. “I will have no more of your cryptic answers, Ragged one. Your curse – it’s plain to see what it is. It deprived you of your name and power, leaving you with the dregs of whatever demonic power you had gained and empty knowledge. Your kin is the source of it, is it not?”

She nodded. “My sister,” she said, speaking the word like poison.

“That is why you need Tess,” Vergil scowled. “She shares your blood.”

“I have already explained this to you, dear child,” the Ragged Lady said patiently. “I cannot control her. You can. I require her. You require what she can do. I have provided you the means to control her. Neither us need suffer the other when it is done.”

His scowl deepened. Certainly, she presented things in a rosy light. He’d already been bitten once before by these kinds of promises by the equally sycophantic Arkham. It had ended with his failure and his fall. The problem with the Ragged Lady was her uncanny power of foresight, even more potent than Tess’. She had anticipated every single event so far, even Vergil’s single attempt at subverting her. She had put a stop to it before it even really happened, merely by expositing what would’ve followed it. She had not been hostile, just exasperated, like a put-upon mother.

Vergil loathed her and this infuriating co-dependency she had imposed upon them both. But he had ample evidence that she delivered.

“That is assuming she really can fulfil what you expect her to,” he said cynically. “I’ve grown tired of hearing you praise this ritual you fixate on, over and over. If it is as potent as you claim, why should she be able to perform it? She’s but a human and barely that.”

“She can,” the Ragged Lady hummed serenely. “And she will. After all, your half-demon nature and my… tainted state are what complicate things unnecessarily. Were we purely human or purely demonic, the solution would be simpler. But as we both, in different ways, straddle between two worlds… whoever conducts the Movement of the World must be the same.”

Vergil narrowed his eyes. He saw a chance to get information she had not yet shared. “Yet she is not of demon blood.”

“No, she is not,” the Ragged Lady conceded. “Yet the power of the _aos sí_ is potent and wild. The blood of the fair folk runs thick with power, even when diluted by mortality. It is older than demons. It blurs the lines of mortal and immortal. And so, it will permit her to undo our bindings. That she will perish in doing so is a mere formality.”

“The fact that she so conveniently happens to be your kin surely helps” he snarked.

“That, my dear, is personal,” she said sharply. “ _Our_ arrangement is purely business and has been so ever since I dredged you up from the abyss where you floated between the worlds, neither dead nor alive.”

He glared at her fiercer than ever. He was well aware of what she’d done but he had no gratitude for her. He recalled very little of that state, stranded at the very edge of death but stubbornly clinging to life, a half-life really. It had been a foggy, dreamlike state that he remembered very little of. He recalled the vagueness of the sensation of being pulled up from the mire, called back by the cracked voice of the Ragged Lady.

It wasn’t until the Yamato was repaired that he truly was alive again; weak but alive. He detested the memory of those few months, the weakness and helplessness he experienced, alternating between senselessness and rabid, uncontrollable rage as Mundus’ hold took over. The gradual invigoration through the alchemist’s distilled demon essence and life force. His body rebuilding itself painfully, bit by bit. His soul tearing down the fog of confusion brought by near death.

“Do not speak to me as though I were a child, witch,” he snapped.

“I am not. But as we talk of children… what are your intentions regarding the boy?”

Vergil flinched, a look of disgust crossing his features. “I have no intentions regarding him. I don’t care what that wretch does so long as he does not interfere. He ought to be dead. I’ll just have to do a better job if he crosses my path again. Do not speak of him to me again.”

The Ragged Lady inclined her head once more. “Very well, then. There only remains the issue of your brother and the girl.”

“Do not meddle in what isn’t your business, Ragged one.” Vergil snapped.

“Oh, I know that you have ordered her to never speak of her… situation to anyone and to never approach him. But I would rather feel secure in the knowledge that any possibility of his interference be diminished,” she replied. “Do not give me that look. I will merely keep him occupied. The less he pries, the better.”

Vergil narrowed his eyes at her. “So what do you intend?”

The Ragged Lady glided past him, towards the wall. She waved her hand lazily at it and a circular mirror materialized against the wall.

“Adrame,” she spoke firmly. “Come forth.”

The mirror’s surface responded by rippling like water. A dark yet delicate, graceful hand tipped with claws slipped out, perching on the frame for leverage. The demon’s crested head surfaced and she opened solid white, luminous eyes. The alluring creature hesitated, her torso hanging out of the mirror for a moment before she stretched a long, fine leg out of the mirror and climbed down with the deliberate, slinky movements of a big cat. In form she was rather human but her height and stature were somewhat unearthly. Her hair was long, pale cream and gathered in an elaborate headdress with two large horns curling elegantly out the sides of her head. She had dark and glossy skin, like polished rock and her lips were white, fitting her narrow, highly angled face. Her body had absolutely no distinguishing features, merely reflecting tiny points of light with every motion. Her shoulders were crested with elaborate dark growths, scales crafted like erect feathers. She had a long tail, like a whip, stretching out the base of her spine and swaying lazily.

“You called, my Ragged Lady?” the demoness purred, her voice husky and low-pitched, sensual.

The Ragged Lady waved her charm away. “I have work for you, mirror demon.”

Vergil tensed at the sight of the demon, gripping Yamato’s scabbard tighter than before. This was a fairly potent creature, perhaps not in the league of beasts such as Beowulf, but no mere trifling demon. The temptation to unfurl his power and let the creature know her place was great but Vergil disciplined himself. Unchecked indulgences in his darker nature when he was still prone to these infuriating attacks were ill advised.

“Dante has faced demons far more formidable than her,” Vergil sneered. “She’ll hardly slow him down.”

Adrame laughed gently, bringing her hand to her mouth coyly.

“It isn’t battle that will keep him busy, dear child,” the Ragged Lady chuckled.

“What do you need of me?” Adrame asked her coyly.

“You have studied the witch. Take on her appearance and find Sparda’s son. Distract him. Lead him onto a chase. I have told you what is to occur. Use it and your arts to persuade him that his little friend is no longer worthy of his trust. Draw him away from the fort.”

The demoness blinked, smiling broadly, tilting her head to the side. She mused Vergil the entire time that the Ragged Lady spoke and Vergil had to restrain himself not to lash out at her.

“Certainly. It sounds fun,” Adrame said and giggled slyly, then twirled in place.

Her form grew vague like ink spreading in water and when she reformed, she was a perfect copy of Tess’ appearance. Vergil was somewhat startled that even the ‘signature’ of her demonic aura was vastly diminished. Powerful she may not have been, but she was certainly a crafty demon. He squinted and still could not find a way to tell her apart from the real Tess.

Adrame grinned and looked down on herself. “Oh, she’s not bad. No wonder that silly alchemist is beside himself about her,” she chuckled, her voice ringing true like Tess’. She patted her thighs, amused. “My, she’s short, but at least she has some meat on her.”

She caught Vergil looking at her and smiled lasciviously at him, which only served to put him off. “You can order me around too, you know. I’d be _far_ more obedient…” she purred.

“Silence, insolent creature,” the Ragged Lady admonished, even as Vergil gave her a withering look. “Cease your prattling and go.”

The demoness looked at the Ragged Lady with a hurtful expression, about as truthful as her appearance and then sauntered over to the mirror again. “Very well, my lady. As you wish,” she huffed and with a slinky, purposeful motion, slipped back into the mirror and vanished.

“She is impudent, but will do for now. If you are correct about your brother, Adrame shall distract him enough for the book to come into our hands.”

Vergil sneered. “He’s not a fool, as much as he plays the part. He’ll figure her out, sooner or later.”

“And by the time he does, it shall not matter,” the Ragged Lady said serenely. “By then he’ll doubt Tess and she will be lost. We have already won the game.”

He sat back in the chair, steepling his fingers together with his elbows on the armrests.

“We wait, then?” he muttered.

“We wait,” she echoed.

“You’re predicted everything,” he said, unable to suppress his snide. “How convenient. And you still expect me to believe that this is all you want? Petty revenge?”

She laughed a repugnant, sugary noise that revolted him. “You are one to talk, my dear,” she said. “Revenge is not petty. So long as my sister’s blood lives, I am not satisfied. You know better than anyone, what it is like to suffer at your sibling’s hands. I warned you the day we entered this… bargain: Do not question my motives, and I will not question yours.”

“I have no interest in killing him,” Vergil replied coldly.

“There, enough of this pointless banter,” she said decidedly. “Let us not quarrel, so close to your goal. I know you loath me. I do not care.”

She glided past him, her silent steps taking her across the room smoothly. “I must rest. Concealing my presence from the girl’s senses is rather tiring. I will return to the shadows until it is time for the ritual. You should do well to prepare for the next step in our arrangement.”

Vergil’s glare burrowed into the back of her robes as she vanished into the wall, like an encroaching infection that seeped into the stone. He leaned back and closed his eyes, focusing his senses and his will to be ready. The reunion with his ‘beloved’ brother was rapidly approaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you know. Sorta.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysteries abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday weekend so y'all get a double update C;

Dante stopped in the middle of the alley, no longer able to hear any of the earlier hullaballoo caused by the gaggle of wiccans running through the town. There had been a cacophony of shouting and feet hitting cobblestone. An orgy of energies zinged through the atmosphere as their powers flew wide, contorting into spells of motion and immobility. He sensed the light pressure changes of teleportation and the thundering boom of seals stopping assaults.

Now you could hear a pin drop in the alleys of Amaro. He couldn’t even sense anything around him, just the ambient powers he’d already identified much earlier and the fading powers of the earlier scuffle. He huffed irritably and crossed his arms, trying to orient himself once more and comprehend exactly what he’d just seen.

That puny woman in jeans, purple boat-neck shirt and the black coat that darted past him faster than a hummingbird with its tail on fire must’ve been Tess. He had recognized her immediately, not from the photo, just from her face flashing past him in her haste. She hadn’t changed a bit – except maybe grown _a little_ taller and filled out a bit. But he was confused, why had she run away from him? If the problem had been those wiccans chasing after her, surely she’d stop and they’d deal with it as partners.

Like they used to.

Instead she screamed out something and ran off, as if terrified of him rather than the rabble pursuing her. He chased after her to try and catch up but he only ended up getting caught in a dozen different wards and seals, along with what must’ve been misdirection spells. He ran into dead ends three times in a row. Deep down he knew they were Tess’ doing, because he was familiar with her powers and the feeling was the same just… more complex, more accomplished. He felt that at this point his career he was better at identifying and dealing with these kinds of things. So it was kind of impressive that she could confound him like that now.

He had only briefly seen her face but she looked frightened to see him – not the wiccans pursuing her, her expression had been calm until their eyes met. _He_ scared her. It was possible she didn’t recognize him and that cryptic Deep Sight power she possessed had just reacted badly to his potent aura but…

No, even if she didn’t remember his appearance – which was a stretch – she would definitely remember his aura.

So she knew it was him. He didn’t understand.

At least he was certain she really was in the city. Vergil ought to be here too, but where? He had fixed on the idea that if he found one he’d run into the other but now Tess had just up and fled for dear life. The wiccans pursuing her called ‘murderer’ and ‘traitor’. Sure, that could just be them being pissed at her for defecting but… could she have done something that radical? Tess as he remembered her was straightforward and knew how to hold her own but not quite a hell-raiser if she could avoid it and certainly not a cold-blooded murderer.

But it _had_ been about fifteen years. And people change.

He frowned. How well did he really know her now? He didn’t think he was the same as the teenager he was when they first knew each other, so really, it’d be reasonable to assume the same for her. He didn’t like doubting her but what if she really had been… tempted?

He shook his head. Those questions could wait when he had her in front of him. Right now he needed direction – again. So he turned back to the thread he’d been following before Tess nearly crashed into him.

He jumped, giving himself a bit of extra oomph with the demonic strength, kicking off a wall and landed on a tiled roof to orient himself again. Amaro’s construction, draped down the side of a mountain, could get a little irritating to navigate. He redirected himself back towards the docks – that was the general area of the nearest gate marked on the map that Ricardo had given him. Although he was certain the alchemist had his own ulterior motives, because after all, who _didn’t_ have ulterior motives in this business, Dante still figured he could trust him about this particular thing because it was too specific and fit with what he’d sensed and seen about Amaro so far.

He consulted the map one more time and headed in the direction of the docks, using the rooftops as a bit of a shortcut. The closer he got to them, the more he started to sense a sort of disturbance in the air. Like something was wrong. Humans wouldn’t have felt a thing – heck even some wiccans probably wouldn’t, it was too specific and too subtle, you had to be looking for it to find it. He was on the right track.

He dropped off the top of a building onto the concrete and paved stones of a deserted dock, the otherwise soothing sound of water splashing against the concrete filling his ears. He looked up and around. The air was heavy here, there would be no gulls flying overhead. Even the marine life in the area would’ve hauled ass out of the vicinity of even a dormant Gate. Wholesome nature knows better than to hang around a gate to Hell.

Surely enough he sensed it, barely, nearby. He walked slowly, concentrating, letting the threads of energies guide him along. He put his hand against a building, looking up towards the roof and then walked around to the side. It was one of the old medieval style buildings, in quite bad condition and uncared for by the look of it. It probably once had been used as a shipping company, judging by the faded signs still attached over the front doors, closed firmly with a loop of heavy chain and a padlock.

Surely enough he found a narrow side door facing the other building next to it. The door was smashed and hung by its hinges rather pitifully. He’d sensed, rather than seen, wards around the building; the wiccans evidently had done their best to deal with what was in there and there were more around the door. They wouldn’t stop him from getting inside, but if the Gate were activated they’d probably do a bit to contain it.

He pushed the damaged door open and stepped inside. The interior was even more derelict than the outside. The wooden floor had a massive hole opening into a basement and as he looked up, Dante saw a similar hole on the wooden ceiling, opening into the room above. By the way the wood was blown upwards, a blast had happened in the basement. He casually dropped down into it. The space wasn’t much bigger than the floor above and it was dark and dank, smelling of brine and mould. The space had been cleared pretty thoroughly – and violently, Dante could see old furniture, crates and other junk pushed up against the walls and shattered by some unseemly force to uncover a solid rock floor.

The taint of demonic powers was stronger here. He was in the right place.

It still felt very different from the Gates he had experienced so far, whether it was the ones he’d seen in Fortuna or the more bizarre, logic-defying ones he’d found in Temen-Ni-Gru and Mallet Island. All he could see were some very precise gouge marks on the floor that traced a peculiar but definitely infernal pattern. Tiny dark flames hovered over the corners of the pattern, so faint they may as well not even have been there. Dante reached down and waved his hand through one – the flame shrank away from him and all he felt was a cold sensation. He drew Rebellion from his back and with a thunderous blow slammed it into the floor.

Well, he tried. There was a loud crackling noise and the tip of the Rebellion collided with a shining, rippling, previously unseen surface that covered the pattern. He put more force into it but nothing happened, there was even more resistance. He stopped, sheathing the sword and huffed. Looks like Ricardo had been right. There was no way to destroy this Gate right now. It puzzled him –he recognized a lot of the marks around it as being wiccan but they were deeply blended with more familiar demonic symbols. They differed from the wards placed outside the building. He suspected those were the coven’s work.

This Gate was another matter. And it really was unusual. It felt… smaller in scale. He didn’t think any actual demons besides small fry could make it out of this Gate. But judging why what he could see and sense… power most probably _could_.

 _This Gate could be used as a conduit, I guess,_ he thought.

This was supported by the additional layer of runes he found gouged around its outer rim. Running his hand over them gave him a sense of somewhere far off. Somewhere _else_ , connected to the Gate.

He stood up and dusted his hands. Vergil had set this Gate up, there was no doubt. He recognized the way that Yamato had gouged the stone in certain places – just the broader strokes, the rest of the runes had been inscribed by arcane means. Besides, he _felt_ Vergil’s presence there. It was very faint but it was there. It was nearly lost amid the other energies running through the place. Pity he couldn’t use it to track him.

There was nothing more he could do here. It annoyed him but he had to apparently try the other three Gates and see whether he could get some answers there.

He jumped out of the hole and paused at the ground floor, staring at the sealed, double front doors of the building. He smirked. Looks like he’d get some answers after all. He kicked them open with a deafening crunch and the crack of breaking metal as the padlock went flying. Stepping outside he came face to face with a man who had caught the padlock just before it nailed him in the face.

He was very tall and built like a line-backer with blonde messy hair in cowlicks, wearing a maroon waistcoat over a black shirt with an old-fashioned white cravat and dark trousers with perfectly polished black Oxfords. For all intents and purposes, he was dressed for the library, not the grimy docksides.

“You are trespassing,” he said with a thick Teutonic accent.

“You don’t say,” Dante scoffed. “And who’re you?”

The man drew himself to his full height, casting the padlock aside like trash. “I am Albrecht, chief of La Alta’s personal guard and _magister militum_ of the Rosengard coven. I ensure that the law of the coven is obeyed. And I am here as a _courtesy_.”

“Courtesy, huh?” Dante replied, folding his arms over his chest and shifting his weight to one leg. “Well now that you’re here, why don’t ya gimmie a tour of the property? ‘Cuz I kinda like the digs. Bit of a fixer-upper but it’s a classic, the view’s great, it’s a waterfront property and I bet you people got some authentic pizza joints nearby!” He punctuated it with a wide sweep of the arm. “Really, only hiccup’s the _gate to Hell_ in the basement.”

Albrecht responded to that barb with a fearsome scowl. “These foul Gates are none of your concern. How did you find this place?”

“Oh, y’know, I was just taking in the sights and I got a look at this little beauty,” Dante responded, patting the threshold of the doors. “Thought I’d poke around before making some offers! You know, ya really should list stuff like Hell Gates on the brochure.”

Albrecht’s lips thinned as he grew more livid. “Lies. You did not find this place by mere happenstance. You were sent here and clearly, you have interfered. The wards reacted. What did you do?”

“I think a more pertinent question is what are _you_ folks doin’ with them,” Dante countered. “Because I know I’ve never seen Gates bein’ _protected_ by witchcraft wards.”

The observation made Albrecht flinch and straighten his necktie with nervous, jerky movements. “The wards are to monitor who accesses them and to limit their effect should they become active,” he said defensively. “It is none of your concern. We offered you a chance to align with the coven and you refused. You are conspiring with the traitor alchemist. Why are you _really_ looking for the fire witch? What has she told you? Where is she?”

Dante tilted his head, his smirk turning grim. So, he was right. The coven _was_ scared of him and not just for his reputation. Regina’s attempt to get him over on their side was clearly a play to exercise some control over him or at least know what he was doing. Good thing he never rolled with that. He didn’t show it, but he was very unhappy to know that they had found some way to spy on him, figuring out that he’d met Ricardo and possibly even that he’d run into Tess.

“Y’know, it ain’t nice to spy on folks like that,” he chuckled.

“For the survival of the coven, civility may die in a gutter for all I care,” Albrecht spat. “At the request of La Alta, I am giving you one final opportunity to align yourself with us but I do not expect you will take it.”

“And you’d be right,” Dante said with a wide grin. “I don’t deal with people who lie to my face and try to play me. Too bad I’ll have to opt out on the property too.”

It was Albrecht’s turn to smirk, an unpleasant sort of smile that made Dante think of a snake. “I see. You know, then. You are more perceptive than I gave you credit for.”

Dante shook his head, the mirth persisting on his features. “Been in business long enough!” he said proudly. “I know a corrupted human when I see ‘em.”

He was about as human as Dante himself was, maybe a little less so even. He stopped bothering to hide it, probably because Dante’s own power was potent enough to cause a subconscious reaction – it happened a lot, actually. Demons and anyone tainted by them just loved to throw themselves at him, to challenge him and tear him down. Whether it was because of their nature to want to be in control or his half-human aura excited them or they just were looking for a fight and he was the biggest thing in the area, Dante never could tell.

Albrecht’s response was unexpectedly bitter. “You call me corrupt, but are you really any better?” he said harshly, throwing his arm up in a gesture that spoke of a deep and heartfelt defeat. “It is beings like you that drive us to seek this taint in order to survive. Yes, you may tell me that it is better to die ‘clean’ than live on like this. But it is easy for you to preach about dying 'clean' when you can't even conceive of what it is like to be a rat in a corner; the fear, the sick twist in the back of your mind that obliterates desire for anything but to survive. Bravery must come easy to those who cannot die."

The bitterness caught Dante a little off guard, so much so that he completely overlooked the subtle insult in his words. A tainted human who was aware of the sadness and unnatural state of their situation and resented it, rather than revelled in the power they had gained – this was honestly a rare thing in Dante’s experience. And to hear that there were more like him… it gave Dante a funny, dark feeling. Albrecht’s tone was as thoroughly sincere as his demonic taint. He knew full well the consequences of his fall.

“Do you think we enjoy being brought this low? Yes, it affords us the ability to defend ourselves but it is unnatural.” Here Albrecht’s face softened to something of a sad, defeated smile. “We battle _monsters_ , hunter. And therefore we must _be_ monsters.”

It made Dante look at the wiccan a little more soberly. “Ain’t too late to back out of this, Albrecht. Walk away and keep your dignity. I said I wouldn’t give you people trouble if you didn’t start it. I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t a liar.” 

Albrecht regarded him with a suspicious look for a long moment and neither spoke. Finally, the enforcer shook his head in a decidedly sad way. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler, calmer. “No. I cannot. Should you proceed down the path you are following, regardless of the outcome, you will endanger the coven. I cannot allow that. I may resent La Alta and that wretch, Ricardo, for bringing the coven to this circumstance, but I am duty-bound to protect it and its secrets and bring all who threaten it to justice.”

Dante huffed and shrugged. He was not happy. Ricardo being name-dropped was not surprising, nor was the info that La Alta had really been dabbling with demons. How both of them sneaked the evidence past him was something he’d deal with in time. For now, a battle was inevitable – and he didn’t like it when he got into fights that he knew he wasn’t going to thoroughly enjoy. There’d no more jokes, no smack-talking.

“That’s too bad, Albrecht,” he said mildly. “Y’got guts and honor. I like that in people.”

“Have no regrets,” the enforcer said and Dante felt the man’s powers, wiccan and demonic, surging.

His form was wrapped in green flames of energy that licked across him, obfuscating his form, only his silhouette seen raising his hands upwards and tilting his head back as if in a gesture of supplication to some uninterested deity. As the flames parted he lunged at Dante with a speed that was unexpected, muttering quite coherently what was certainly an incantation.

In a rather sad way, Albrecht’s demonic form was depressingly human-like. In size and stature he had changed little, aside from getting taller and leaner, his arms having elongated disproportionally and his whole body growing sleeker with a graceful sweeping shape. His head was encased in a closed helmet resembling an eagle’s head with a plume of green flame trailing behind it and more of the same erupting out of his back like wings. His clothing had been largely seared, leaving him in tattered trousers, giving his raptor-like feet freedom. His skin was bone-white with mould-like black patches and luminescent green veining.

The incantation hit Dante like a hammer, a potent immobilization spell that wrapped around his body like palpable, heavy chains. It allowed Albrecht to launch a spectral green chain at him from his hand that wrapped around Dante’s torso and yanked him abruptly towards Albrecht. His hands were like the talons of a raptor bird and burning with this green fire, so he dealt Dante a blow of staggering force.

The hunter felt himself go flying and his back hitting the concrete dock with a meaty thud that would make even the most hardened veteran cringe. With Dante winded, Albrecht set the stage for their battle; a lofty incantation created a great ring of runes from which neither could really escape. Albrecht intended to either die or emerge victorious from here.

Dante rolled to his feet, drawing Rebellion as he did, just to catch Albrecht drawing his own weapon of choice. He was bare-chested and a large crack split his sternum in two, glowing bright green and leaking foul demonic energy all the time. The magister seemed to plunge his hands into this cavity and withdraw from it a large, twisted black staff. He drew it fully and brandished it proudly before him. Green flame ignited on each end, shaping itself into two mirroring, wicked green blades like the halves of a moon.

“Now we begin in earnest,” he said frigidly, his voice strained and distant.

It was an intense battle, even though Dante firmly held the power advantage throughout it. Albrecht wielded the double scythe with uncanny accuracy and preternatural skill, utilizing a method of combat that kept him and the scythe in constant, sweeping motion. He would deflect hails of gunfire with a spin of the axe and counter with wicked slashes of the scythe. He was able to part the weapon in two, wielding the two blades as separate sickles in a seemingly unstoppable assault of furious swipes, propelled forward by the fire wings of his form. The same wings took him to the air where he evaded many blows of the Rebellion.

It was a veritable dance of death that Dante needed a few moments to figure out – and could not entirely abolish a twinge of admiration for the skill involved.

Furthermore, the battle gave Dante a taste of the potency of wiccans that embraced the powers of demons. From his brief experience with Tess as a teenager, and his subsequent career, Dante was aware that the two powers could not quite coexist without the demonic taint invariably corrupting the wiccan power. The power of demons twisted it into something weaker and ugly.

Yet here he was, confronted with an example of a wiccan, fully embracing the power of demons, and still being able to seemingly freely use witchcraft without it being twisted. It took him a few moments to fully work out how to forcefully break Albrecht’s binding incantations using his inherent power – brute force wasn’t enough, it required a measure of finesse. They clashed with ever-increasing ferocity, putting Dante’s agility and dodging skills to a thorough and vicious test.

Dante’s admiration for Albrecht rose throughout the fight; the magistrate didn’t contend himself with a fixed pattern of attacks. Every approach that failed was immediately discarded in favour of a new form of assault, utilizing his speed and agility to their utmost, the peculiar attack patterns of the scythe giving him an edge that allowed him to deliver several blows to Dante. Even so the battle was in Dante’s favour early on. He hit harder and shrugged off Albrecht’s blows easier than his opponent could weather his own.

The concrete under them was pockmarked with impact craters and scarred by gouges and dents form the ferocity of their battle. The reverberations of their weapons colliding sent tremors through the dock.

Albrecht seemed to tire at last.

His scythe swung just a little too wide.

Dante had an opening and he took it. A stinger blow pierced through Albrecht’s chest, the force of momentum driving both of them along the ground against the barrier, shattering it and crashing Albrecht into the side of the building housing the Gate. The wall behind him cracked.

They stayed stock still for a moment, both of them panting as adrenaline still thundered through their bodies, Albrecht’s power thrashing like dying bird in its last helpless throes, the demonic form slowly withering and falling off him like a coating of ashes.

Dante scowled. There was no other way of putting it; Albrecht’s body was falling apart, disintegrating before his eyes.

“Well then,” Albrecht said. His clarity and utter lack of regret gave Dante pause. “My duty is done. Take my advice hunter, though I fear it will bring you no joy.” He breathed out with an awful, rattling noise. “You seek Tess. I don’t know what you believe she is like… but she _is_ a witch. Wickedness… is in our blood.”

Dante’s stance unexpectedly relaxed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Albrecht smirked sadly at him. “You will know, in time.”

Dante made a half-hearted effort to stop him but Albrecht made an abrupt move that forced the Rebellion deeper into his chest. The hunter frowned at the death rattle that preceded the magistrate’s body, largely human again now, but bearing the ravages of the demonic form in the cracking and burned skin, slumped. Dante withdrew Rebellion slowly and let Albrecht’s body to lie back against the wall with something like dignity. Then he put his hand out and closed Albrecht’s eyes at last.

Dante stepped back and sheathed his sword then huffed irritably. More dead ends. More problems. Now he’d made enemies of the coven – not that he had ever expected them to just let him be, but a hunter can hope. He walked away from the site, intent on checking the other three Gates he could find, hoping to glean something that might give him a clue to go on. He could theoretically go crashing the coven again now that he had a perfect excuse but… it didn’t feel right.

Now, Dante was used to clues dropping in on him out of nowhere. It had been a running theme of his career.

So he wasn’t very surprised to see her standing on a rooftop ahead of him, watching him intently.

“Well,” he muttered. “Finally, she puts on a proper appearance.”

Tess had taken the coat’s hood down and her red hair was quite a beacon – she’d taken wearing it long again and it made a stark contrast with the purple boat-neck shirt she was wearing over a black strap shirt. A black choker around her neck stood starkly against her pale skin. He finally could appreciate the effect adulthood had on her. She looked great. Not stunning, not like Trish or Lady. Tess was tiny – well compared to him, anyway – and her looks were quieter, earthy, all bright green eyes and freckles. She returned the gaze enigmatically and then turned around and ducked out of sight.

“Hey!” Dante blurted. “Tess, wait!”

Without even thinking about it, he surged forward and with a couple of deft jumps, found himself on the same roof, just to watch her hair disappearing down the other side, towards the ground. By the time he followed her, all he saw was her form disappearing around a corner. They were in the damned winding alleys of Amaro again. All the speed in the world would do him no good if he couldn’t keep track of where she was.

He hurried after her, but every time he only caught glimpses of her vanishing ahead of him, just like the first time they bumped into each other. He wondered if she was still frightened of him. But if she was, why was she here, taunting him to follow?!  

“Where the hell’s she taking me?” he muttered. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rabbit hole is deeper than you think.

Tess could not remember seeing the coven buzzing with so much agitation in the fifteen years she lived there. Something had happened, to shake the community so much that they were now torn between rallying around their haven or fleeing the city. She stood watch on an elevated balcony, hidden out of sight and practically bundled up in multiple layers of concealment and protective wards to avoid detection, while Ricardo scouted their entrance into the haven. They’d never get in through the usual means of egress, let alone the front door. The coven’s own wards were too powerful and too numerous for them. Ricardo had said there was an alternate, secret route into the coven.

Nearby, she heard the voices of several people argue furiously about whether they should leave the city or seek shelter in the coven haven. Others were talking about the death of the magister at the hands of ‘the crimson hunter’ which made her flinch.

She bit her lips. _Albrecht’s… dead? Dante killed Albrecht? What the hell happened? Oh jeez, is he here because the coven did something? Like… like Fortuna?_

Whatever the reason, undoubtedly Albrecht’s decision to fight Dante for was on Regina’s orders; Albrecht himself was too diplomatic and reasonable to take that decision on his own… unless Dante really _did_ pose a threat to the coven. Either way, now Dante must know the coven’s dirty little secret. They’d fallen to the temptation of demonic power, at least some of them. The looming suggestion of it had hung over her for years, but she had been in the periphery of the coven most of the time, having little contact with the inner circle.

But up till last year, Tess had seen things. Things that made her distance herself from the coven even more, which ironically got her stuck in the position she was in now. Ricardo’s involvement in the whole affair was evident, she knew that before he even defected – she’d like to believe he did it out of shame but that was hardly likely.

The coven had been pushed past a breaking point, building up over the past few years. Dante was an utter unknown in this mess and no doubt it made the already tightly-wound high priestess even more nervous. Dante could have come here looking for Vergil or because of something the coven did. If he’d spoken to Regina and if Regina had found out that Dante had run into Tess… it was entirely possible Regina was simply lashing out at this mess, more out of spite than anything.

And Tess couldn’t help but think that it was the perfect diversion to make it easier for Ricardo and herself to slip into the coven unnoticed.

It was _too_ perfect.

There’d have been less of a fuss if the city had been invaded by demons. Tess cringed when a passing group of the coven’s enforcers mentioned that ‘the traitors’ had been spotted in the city and that the enforcers were out looking for them. So they knew Ricardo and she were coming. It was hurtful to be referred as such, but true. She had no loyalty left for the coven and particularly for Regina. As far as Tess was concerned, this was her fault.

Just as she started to think Ricardo had been caught, he returned, winded but with a small smile. His own wards kept him hidden from most of her perception but she was better attuned to pick up on the sensation of someone hiding rather than trying to discern his presence.

“We’re in luck,” he said. “The passage is unguarded; it seems I was correct and that it has remained undiscovered all this time. Come with me!”   

Tess followed him, unable to share in his mirth. “What passage is this?” she asked flatly.

Ricardo and her skulked to the basement of the building they were hiding in, just a stone’s throw away from the coven. He scoffed. “Something my father succeeded in hiding from mother dearest,” he said acidly. “I suppose I may be thankful for his rampant infidelity now. He constructed it to come and go from the coven as he pleased. I believe I’m the only one aware of its existence now. It has its own set of wards and protective spells but it will allow us free access.”

Tess said nothing, just pursed her lips. Evidently that’s also how Ricardo escaped Regina’s attention when he began to rebel against her.

“Ricardo… they know we’re in Amaro. They know what we’ve done,” she sighed.

“Oh I expect they do, dearest,” he replied nonchalantly, leading her up the basement stairs into the rear garden of the building. “I’m also aware of their panic and frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

His glee at the coven’s troubles disturbed her. She never imagined that his loathing for his own mother and the coven ran so deep. They cut across the garden, into an empty courtyard and across it to the side of a sealed store. Ricardo unlocked the side door with a rusted skeleton key and ushered her inside. It was nothing more than a hole in the wall, really, gathering dust and cluttered with junk, but Ricardo pushed past some covered furniture and fiddled with one of the tiles. It popped open and swung up, allowing them to enter down into it.

“My dear, you’ll have to provide us with some light,” he told her with a cheerfulness that enraged her.

She descended the short ladder first and with a flick of her wrist, created a small, hovering flame that lit the narrow tunnel. She felt the wards and seals running all along it. They were extremely potent and explained a bit of how this had remained undiscovered.

“Come along, it will let us exit within the inner sanctum and from there will we get to the great ceremony hall. That’s where the entrance to the catacombs is,” Ricardo said conversationally, grabbing her hand and starting down the passage.

Tess yanked her hand away and they both stopped and stared at each other. In the gloom, Ricardo’s eyes fairly gleamed with feeling, even though the light bounced off his glasses, hiding them.

“Tess. Please. I’m trying to help you,” he placated.

She shook her head. “I think you’re helping yourself more than me,” she said firmly. “Ricardo, I’m sorry. But whatever it is you believe I think of you, it’s most probably wrong. You need to realize that whatever happened between us is well and truly over. No amount of wishing and helping me is going to change things. Not now. Not after this. So stop it with the nice-making and let’s _go_.”

She walked past him, ignoring the obviously hurt look on his face. The long, winding passage was narrow, damp and stank of mildew. It seemed to absorb noise and at every turn Tess was terrified they’d run into someone. She hated it, she felt like the damn thing was going to come down around her and Ricardo’s gaze on her back it worse. She almost turned around and slugged him in the face but she reined herself in. She had to see this through. It had to be done, it had to be over with.

Except it wasn’t going to be.

“Here we are,” Ricardo said at length, as the light from the fire she maintained reflected off a dull stone wall. “Let me open this… hopefully we will not be disturbed here.”

He put his ear to the wall and listened for a moment, then fiddled with one side of the slab before pushing it open. It swung open with a faint creak of hinges, opening into an eerie room that smelled from dust and mould, evidently not having known fresh air for a long while.

“My old chambers in the coven,” Ricardo said wistfully. “Right under mother’s thumb. I see it’s been left undisturbed—no, no… most of my books and notes have been pilfered and ransacked. No doubt mother trying to discover my little secrets. Too bad I took precautions.”

Tess wrinkled at her nose at his reminiscing. She remembered being in this room, she remembered quiet talks and commiserations, the telling of stories of her escapades when she shirked the coven’s restrictions and went looking for trouble because she could. And she remembered the unsettling feelings and the gazes that made her feel uneasy.

“I envied you, you know,” he said quietly. “You never let yourself get trapped here. Soon as you were of age, you found a home outside the coven for yourself. You said it was quieter.”

“Less magic flying around and less prying,” she confirmed flatly. “Fat lot of good it did me. Now what do we do?”

Their personal wards and concealment spells would keep them safe from detection, for now, but Tess could hear the vague noises of the coven’s activity beyond the walls. Rushing feet and lots of voices. The coven was going into panic mode.

“We head for the great ceremony hall,” Ricardo said, adjusting his glasses. “They’ll be busy sorting the mess outside and with Nicodemus and Albrecht deceased, the guard will be lax. If there is anyone present, we’ll—“

“We are not going to kill anybody,” Tess hissed. “I don’t—I don’t care what Vergil said. I don’t want to kill anyone else,” she insisted, gritting her teeth.

Ricardo winced at her expression and fidgeted. “I… er, yes. Of course. We can… we can figure something out.”

They stealthily made their way out of the room and hurried along the corridor – this was the wing where Regina, her guard and family lived and Tess spent the entire time in terror that they were going to round a corner and run into the high priestess or any of the remaining members of her guard. But they met nobody, taking precautions to keep it that way: they left a trail of subtle misdirection and confusion traps on their way that would confound anyone following in their wake, scouting ahead with the use of detection spells.

At long last, the bulky double doors of the great ceremony hall loomed ahead of them.

“I can’t believe it—it’s utterly unguarded,” Ricardo observed.

“The enforcers must’ve taken the guard out to scour the city for us,” Tess said. “Or Da—the demon hunter. He killed Albrecht.”

Ricardo flinched a bit. “Did he now? Well, good riddance.”

Tess stared at him. His utter apathy for the death of someone he had essentially empowered with distilled demonic force was disturbing. She balled her fist, resisting the urge to beat Ricardo with her bare hands.

The hall was always locked unless it was used for any particular ceremony, usually during Beltane or Samhain. Not everyone was allowed into these ceremonies and Tess had only been allowed in relatively recently. Ricardo fiddled with the complex rune lock on the doors for an amount of time that seemed almost eternal to Tess, driving her around the bend, enough to make her squirm with nervous energy.

“By the way,” Ricardo said, manipulating the lock with a tool, “I… overheard something disconcerting when reconnoitring the passage.”

“And what would that be,” Tess asked impatiently.

Ricardo pursed his lips and muttered a curse directed at the lock. “They think the Gates are reacting.”

Tess winced. “Of course they are,” she lamented quietly. “Vergil dragged me with him when he set up the last one last week. The network he needs must be complete. Whatever he wants, it involves opening the big one under the fort.”

“You have to admit, it’s dashed clever of him to use smaller Gates as conduits. That way even if one is damaged, the rest will keep it going – and he’ll have complete control over how much it opens and what comes through…” Ricardo sighed.

“I don’t _care_ ,” she spat. “I helped him make them. I’d sooner wish I was dead than admire his bloody handywork! This is why he told me to steal the book now. Whatever he’s up to – he’s _ready_. Fuck.”

Finally the door opened and they slipped inside, closing it behind them and locking it once more, applying further seals to be safe. The great ceremony hall was large, strangely so, since from the outside the coven’s sanctum did not seem to have such a space available. But ancient magic had created space within space, allowing for a massive complex to be hidden within the apparent confines of the palazzo exterior.

It was circular, much like an ancient temple, and hewn almost entirely from marble. There were no windows, the space lit only through candles and torches – and now, through Tess’ use of fire creating a hovering flame that hung above them like a chandelier and illuminated the room. The marble and any reflective surface from candelabra to adornments caught the light and reflected it, creating an unexpectedly beautiful glittering effect inside the hall that went unappreciated by the pair as more urgent matters preoccupied their minds.

A large and very plain altar lay demurely in the middle of the hall, standing on a base of stark contrast to the rest of the room. There was no marble on the altar at all; it was all hewn by a darker, coarser stone, worn by time down to a fine grit. It was decorated with fading symbols and reliefs, decidedly much older than the room itself.

“This is it. The entrance to the catacombs lies under the altar,” Ricardo said, walking around it with a keen eye. “But I have no idea how to actually open it.”

“You don’t!?” Tess blurted. She struggled to rein in her indignation. “Are you shitting me, Ricardo?! You said you could help—“

“I said I’d help get you in, not that I know everything,” he snapped back. “Only the high priestess knows how to open it and we’re going to either figure it out on the fly or destroy it.”

“Well we _can’t_ destroy it. Don’t you see it? It’s warded fifty ways from Sunday,” Tess almost barked. “The altar’s _generating_ them. We’ll have to figure out how it opens. Do you have any clue how it could open? Something Regina might’ve said or done.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Ricardo groaned. “You know how she is. She is utterly paranoid about her secrets. She’d sooner have me executed if I found out.”

Tess groaned and almost kicked the altar. “Well great. I’m fucked, then.”

Ricardo eyed her carefully. “Hardly. There is a hand you can still play to get us out of this bind.”

Tess whipped around and stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

Ricardo put his hands on the altar, leaned into them and stared her in the eye. “Your Deep Sight, of course.”

She flinched, almost jumping away from him. “No. I can’t—“

“I know how you detest it! But do you really have any choice in the matter right now!?” he insisted. “We know how potent your sight can be, Tess! You can literally reach into the ether and pluck out answers! You’re perfectly capable of focusing it at your discretion; I’ve seen you do it!”

“You don’t understand, Ricardo!” Tess snapped. “I can trigger a vision if I’m _incredibly lucky_ , but I have a hell of a time controlling it and focusing it! And as if that wasn’t had enough, I am completely and utterly vulnerable when they occur! Vergil just about murdered me a while ago because of one!”

“I know that!” he countered. “But what other choice do you have? We risk discovery, not to mention Vergil’s displeasure! I… I will watch over you, should you collapse. Don’t give me that look! I… I will do it and everything be damned!”

Tess stared at him with a wary, frightened look. She shook her head slowly. “You… bastard,” she spat. “You know that Vergil… that he ordered me to get it no matter what I had to do. You just… had to… find the worst possible solution.”

“The worst? Hardly,” he said dryly. “Please, for the sake of both of us: just go through with it so that we may leave!”

Tess threw her arms up and cursed, quite strongly. “Fine. I’ll force myself to have a vision and you better pray to whatever you believe in, Ricardo, that I don’t pass out for hours or put myself in a freakin’ coma.”

“I think I will, actually,” he said and cracked a still smile.

Against all odds, so did she, for a moment. She then breathed out and placed her hands on the altar, leaning into them. She shut her eyes and focused on her breathing, preparing herself for the mental onslaught she knew was awaiting her. Actually forcing herself to have a vision was dangerous and a complete Russian roulette. For all she knew, she would end up experiencing a bunch of gibberish. She didn’t even have something to help her focus – ironically, some alcohol would’ve helped.

She prodded, emptying her mind of everything and focusing on reaching out, undoing the layers of restraints and protection she imposed on herself to try and limit her power, prevent it from having its way with her entirely.

It hit hard and fast, feeling much like walking through a sheet of water at speed. The world around her was melting, running like wet paint down a fresh canvas. Ricardo was both there and not; she felt his presence at the very edge of her vision, physically and metaphorically. She was vaguely aware of herself. Everything became like a scene reflected in rippling water; shapes trembled and twitched uncertainly, blurring and then focusing over and over, dreamlike and liquid.

She was outside. She looked up and saw a wide starry sky. The sea roared in the distance. She could smell the damp grass and bushes and the nearby rustle of trees in the wind. She smelled the greasy flame of torches and the dry soot of bonfires. She rallied; this was a potent vision indeed – far clearer and more concise than she was used to. The altar was part of a shrine of some kind but there were absolutely no buildings around. This was a time before Amaro had grown outwards to engulf it. Garlands of fresh vines wreathed the altar, torches and bonfires lit in a wide circle around it. The pungent smell of straw, holly and incense filled her nose.

She heard rather than saw the people, the vague figures in robes standing just at the edge of her vision, unmoving and ever-whispering.

Tess registered a ritual of some kind but she did not recognize it. There were no words she could identify, nor could she understand any of the signs used.

The rustle of cloth in the wind made her look straight at the altar and across it. She gasped, almost reeling back and away from the altar but some invisible force kept her glued to it.   

Another woman, tall, slender and imposing but frail, like a wraith, stood across her, with her hands on the altar mirroring her pose. She was wearing a loose, dirty cream robe and white cloak, both of them somewhat tattered and grimed. She wore a hood deep onto her head with long black tresses of her hair escaping from under it. What Tess could see of her skin was an ashy sun-kissed complexion but there were marks on it, vague black marks that she could not see clearly. Mesmerised by the vision before her, Tess unconsciously leaned closer to have a clearer look.

The woman raised her finger to her mouth and made a gesture of ‘stay silent’.

Tess almost jumped out of her skin. When she had these visions, she never quite interacted with any person or persons present in them and they never seemed aware of her. But this woman, she was staring right at her from under the hood. It had a deeply mesmerizing effect on her. Tess was unable to take her eyes off this woman. She looked down at her hands – the woman had placed her hands over her own and Tess saw that the wraith’s hands were heavily tattooed with arcane symbols in a blue-black ink that made them look frighteningly like bruises. Her hands were thin and coarse, with visible joints and scars. An eerie sense of familiarity struck Tess and she found herself thinking of her mother even though it was utterly absurd. This woman looked nothing like her mother.

When the woman spoke Tess almost lost it.

“Time marks, with endless turn, the hour of return. The ones gone and the ones yet to come. The sentinels sleeping, the sentinels waiting,” she said in a ragged voice. “The tempted and the mad.”

Then she started to… sing? No, Tess decided. She was reciting an incantation, but her words were so musical they sounded like a song. It was an old tongue; Tess wasn’t familiar with it and had no idea what it spoke of. She repeated the stanza over and over and Tess found herself mouthing the words herself.

A pang of pain made her jump and she realized the woman was gripping her hands, pressing them on the altar with a frozen, vice-like grip and leaned closer, her face inches from Tess’, still repeating the incantation. Tess still mouthed the words, burning them in her memory, as she stared the woman in the eye.

Her face was narrow and covered in the tattoos that her hands also borne, her eyes green, cold and wild. 

Tess didn’t want to look at her anymore. She tore her gaze away and started to yank her hands away from the woman, panicking. The vision was growing unstable. Noise roared around them like the din of a storm. There were no more shapes, just a flurry of dull colours spinning round and round endlessly, reaching for her with edges like pulled ooze.

_Enough, enough, ENOUGH!!_

She woke up on the floor of the great hall with a drawn gasp, perilously close to screaming but for her incredibly dry throat that was stuck shut.

“At last, I was afraid we were done for!”

Ricardo helped her sit up and she shuddered to realize he’d been cradling her. She was drenched in sweat and dizzy, feeling faint and wanting nothing more but to curl into a ball and go to sleep forever and ever. Her neck throbbed painfully and she panted like a frightened child. She covered her face with her hands and then flailed to get up.

“Get me up—let _go_ , Ricardo—“

Ricardo awkwardly helped her to her feet. “You collapsed and after a while began to seize. You were muttering – an incantation, I think. Just muttering it over and over so fast I really couldn’t pick up the words. Have you—“

“Ricardo for the love of mercy, shut up!” Tess snapped.

She stumbled over to the altar, smacked her hands against it and after taking a breath to calm herself, repeated the incantation she heard the woman say to her in the vision. The musical rhythm of the incantation had a peculiar effect as the words seemed to hang in the air for an unusually long time, thrumming with power. There was a long, pregnant pause between the end of the chant and a loud groan from the altar. Tess whipped her hands away as the altar ground into motion slowly and heavily, the force moving it, doing so with difficulty. The altar slid to the side slowly, revealing a set of stairs underneath, leading into absolute darkness below. The smell of earth and death emanated from the hole. A cold draft came up.

“It opened!” Ricardo observed sheepishly. “You did it!”

“Yeah, whooptie-frickin’-doo,” she retorted.

“We’re nearly there, we just have to figure out how to navigate the catacombs; they’re full of the remains of old wiccans, mostly high priests or priestesses and enforcers,” he observed, straightening his glasses. “I’ve, uh… I’ve heard that… that’s not all there is, down there.”

Tess growled. “That’s too bad for them because I’m going in. If I’m really lucky, something’ll kill me before Vergil does.”

Without further ado, she started down the steps, holding up her hand to conjure a mass of flame to light her way.

A loud thud against the doors of the hall startled them both. They heard voices coming from them.

“Blast!” Ricardo exclaimed. “We’ve been found!”

“Ricardo, move, we can outrun them in the—“

“No, we cannot!” Ricardo countered quickly, going to the altar. “Go! I’ll draw them away from you. You must see this through or our lives are both forfeit. Keep going!”

Before Tess could react the altar started to shudder and groan again, sliding shut.

“Ricardo, wait!! What are you…!!”

Before she could leap back out of the passage, the altar ground shut over her, almost making her bump her head against it. She heard muffled thuds from under the heavy stone, but the mass of rock between her and the surface ate up most sound.

“Ricardo, you fucking idiot!!” she snapped.

It was no use. Her neck throbbed and she had to get going. She hurried down the steps again, taking care in the gloom as the fire remained her only source of light. She braced her hands against the walls and felt the moist stone.

 _Limestone… makes sense, it’s easy to carve and makes natural hollows, no wonder they built the catacombs here,_ she thought _._

She stopped suddenly, facing the tunnel ahead of her. A cold, rank breeze came from ahead, making her narrow her eyes at it suspiciously. She expected the worst in there and she hadn’t even reached the burial halls yet. She didn’t relish the thought of the piles of bones and bodies stacked up high in the narrow corridors.

With an angry huff, she strode ahead, her path lit only by the mass of hovering flame that felt very insignificant in this subtellurian blackness.


	8. Chapter 8

The catacombs were cold. Tess rubbed her arms against the damp chill as she continued along the small passageway, lit only by the flickering glow of the hovering flame she maintained. The smell of decay and dank air got stronger as she reached the actual mortuary chambers. She felt like walking for ages but eventually the passage began to widen as she finally exited in a large, open space with a comparatively low, vaulted ceiling.

She drew in a sharp breath at the sight of it. Rows and rows of open tombs, just slits cut into the rock, filled with old and decrepit bodies, some in moulding shrouds, some in rotting coffins, others simply shoved into the slots haphazardly. Some bodies still bore stretched skin along their limbs and others, nothing but crumbling bones. The space was nothing but a wider corridor, stretching ahead into the dark endlessly branching off seemingly at random.

 _It’s… it’s a damn maze. Where do I go?_ she thought, gulping.

Again, despair threatened at the edges of her composure. The place gave her the creeps – few things did that anymore. It wasn’t the prospect of the dead that did it, either; with her potent Deep Sight, life with the dead was an inevitability. The dead, with their pleading, demanding voices, their hungry eyes, grasping hands and their dried tears, you get used to them after a while. It’s the dead who had power in life that are dangerous. And these wiccans buried under the coven had power aplenty in their time.

The potential of getting lost in there is what scared her even more though, and for an embarrassingly long moment, she felt like a child lost in a store, looking for their parent. Suddenly, she desperately missed Roy. Her gruff, ever-reliable familiar; when he wasn’t too busy devouring tangerines and mellowing with tangerine liquor, that damned cat alternated between putting up with her and buoying her through her worst moods.

Tess hadn’t seen him in five years.

He just vanished, one day. Tess had been sick after a successful ‘expedition’ of her own devising to the site of a potential demon infestation. She’d been feverish and forced to stay in bed. Roy had set out for an entirely mundane purpose, to buy some more tangerines and something to cheer her up. He never came home. Roy sometimes would go off on his own for days on end, either for what he mirthfully called his ‘me-time’ or to inspect his natural home. He always came back though and almost always informed her beforehand.

So she waited. When a month had passed there was no sign of him, that’s when she truly got worried. She spent years looking for him, exhausting herself, much of her resources and the coven’s patience with her petitions for aid. Nobody cared. Roy had not been well-liked in the coven.

 _Because nothing with enough power of its own is welcome in the coven,_ Tess thought bitterly. _Regina always hated his ass because she couldn’t control him. Come to think of it, she hated me too, even before this._

Thinking about Roy made her upset and she had to stop to collect herself, to stop her eyes from welling up with tears. Roy was powerful enough that she actually should be comfortable in knowing he probably was not dead but… all the same, she did worry. She missed him terribly. She needed him here, now, to help her. His gruff, quiet wisdom would’ve guided her through this maze and his presence would’ve been a calming balm.

The creeping whispers from the vaults ahead of her snapped her out of it, steeling her for the feat she was about to attempt.

“There you are…” she muttered to herself.

She bravely marched into the darkness with just her maintained fire as a light source. The whispers grew in magnitude around her and she began to discern them a little more clearly.

_“The book… the book… the book…”_

_“The blessed book… stored in a time we knew not…”_

_“The cursed book… the cursed book… does it never cease!?”_

_“It taunts.”_

_“It promises.”_

_“It whispers, ever whispers.”_

_“It never stops! Make it stop! **No** , do not silence it!”_

_“Why does it fill my slumber with unquiet dreams?”_

_“It sings so sweetly… It hurts so much to hear but may it never cease!”_

_“Let me read it just once! It calls and it promises!”_

_“It whispers sweet nothings in my ears, even now!”_

_“The **things** it promises! So sweet and so depraved!”_

_“All of my desires before me… It asks for so little… so little yet so much!”_

_“No, no, mustn’t listen… mustn’t hear… it speaks lies and feeds us fear!”_

_“Why does it never cease…? Why does its voice live on?”_

_“Sweetest oblivion, where is thy mercy?”_

_“Let me hold it just once more!”_

_“The book…”_

“Goddammit, enough of this, all of you,” Tess muttered fiercely, making her way past the rows of tombs, the rattling bones and the creeping whispers.

She could’ve taken the time to exorcise every single one of these poor wretches, bound to the catacombs – whether to guard them or as prisoners was anyone’s guess. Tess had felt a blanket of asphyxiating, vague nastiness in the catacombs that had nothing to do with the dead. She had a rough idea that it was the effect on the book. These priests and priestesses spent their whole lives fighting the influence of the book – but had they really? The whispers implied otherwise.

She felt it, the deeper into the catacombs she went, following that vague feeling to its source. The more she approached, the more she felt the tug of it, a strange, siren allure. She speculated that the full force of the book’s effect wouldn’t come into play until she’d come face to face with it. She had to prepare for that.

Tess pitied the poor wretches buried down here. They were denied peace even in death; the book haunted them and by the sound of it, they were all too aware of it.

She stopped at a crossroads to focus and determine which way to follow. The damned vaults all seemed the same. Rows and rows of holes with bodies piled high. It was staggering that the coven would have such an extensive catacomb network.

She finally chose her path and started down it, when the whispers changed their tune. 

  _“Hark! A footfall where there must be none…”_

_“Breath where there must be none!”_

_“A beating heart to be tempted by the book!”_

She sensed them before she saw them. Then there came the rattle of shifting bone and the whisper crumble of stone. The dead wanted an audience.

The first of the ghosts, a gaunt woman with empty eyes and a vacant expression emerged before her from the floor. She was dressed for a Renaissance court, her clothes dull and featureless in death. She blocked Tess’ path and loomed over her.

 _“The book… the book…”_ she moaned.

Another came gliding languidly down the hall from Tess’ back, a reverent old man in monastic habit, leaning on his walking stick still, unaware that he no longer needed it. His eyes too, black voids of nothingness.

 _“Just one more…”_ he intoned. _“Just one more glance at the pages…”_

They swarmed, gradually appearing out of nowhere as they closed in around her. Tess looked around, more frustrated than afraid. These wraiths were nothing new to her, but they were potent, she could feel it. The air grew cold and heavy around her, as they sought to smother her out. If they all got too close, they would do just that.

“Damn,” she muttered, looking around her.

She had to work fast. Trying to exorcise them, whether one by one, or en masse, would take hours. She did not have hours. She needed to get through them _now_. Fortunately, she had a solution of sorts.

“For once I’m grateful to be the ‘death dabbler’ of the coven,” she muttered.

She stood still, willed fire to come to live around her and seared a relatively small circle of power on the ground, inscribing in its periphery a plethora of warding signs. The advantage of controlling primal elemental fire was the ease in creating these circles – no need for consecrated implements of power when you’ve got a personal way to control one such consecrating power!

The phantoms, grasping and reaching, stopped cold at the edge of the circle. They circled tightly, staring and looming, pressing against the edge. They crowded around, whispering and muttering of the book’s promises like they’d talk about the loving embrace of a paramour.

Tess reached into the inner pockets of her coat and withdrew a small vial of ink. She uncorked it and dipped her fingers in it, using her left hand to inscribe a series of runes on her right arm, after she drew back her sleeve as far as it would go. She returned the bottle to her pocket and braced herself. She made a fist and raised her inscribed hand as though brandishing a sword ready to descend upon someone’s head.

She then spoke a series of sharp, cutting words and her hand started to emit a low, thrumming glow and a mass of white licking flames engulfed it.

At the touch and very sight of the glow, the wraiths balked. They surged back and away from the circle, howling incoherently. Tess bravely stepped out of the circle and started to walk down the hallways again. The ghosts bellowed their displeasure in loud, whining peals, throwing themselves at her in rage before the light from her spell flung them backwards into the darkness.

She nearly ran down the passage now, following the ever-increasing sense of wrongness that she was certain now came from the Tome of Rites. The wraiths made their displeasure even more palpable, gathering to attack, a gestalt of withered faces, empty sockets and gaping mouths united in a singular howl. Tess grit her teeth and held fast, never moving her arm from the position it was in, maintaining the repellent light – a single flinch could break the thread of power and plunge her into darkness. Fatigue would soon set in if she didn’t get through.

The gestalt hurled itself at her and Tess stood her ground, barking a razor sharp incantation that caused a thrum of power to surge through the passage, shaking the very bedrock around her. The gestalt was thrown back, wailing in impotent rage, forced back by the exorcism pulling it apart. Tess pushed on and walked through it, holding her arm firmly in position and allowing the repellent light to force the torn gestalt apart like a wave as she passed through.

By the time she felt the pull of the ghosts waning and their whispers growing fainter, she was breathing hard. She paused, free hand on the wall to brace herself and regain her composure. The wraiths hung back, in the periphery of the light. Her arm hurt now but she didn’t let up. She glanced back at the ghosts. They bobbed and rocked around in the back, just beyond the light. They were no longer fixated on her, though. She looked into the darkness ahead of her.

There were no more tombs carved into the walls.

She had reached the end of the catacombs. The feeling of dread had increased tenfold by now, leading her to speculate she was very close.

Tess sighed, stood straight and moved forward. She looked back again. The ghosts made no motion to follow her at all. They retreated into the shadows again, moaning and whispering.

 _They’re frightened,_ she realized. _They’re enthralled to the book but they still don’t want to go near it. And here I am, rushing headlong where the dead are too terrified to go. The fuck am I doing?_

A few feet ahead their peals were now almost silenced and Tess dared to lower her aching arm. The white flames and light surrounding it died out, leaving her hand raw and reddened, as though sunburned. She winced, wishing for some water to dip it in for comfort and just pressed on with only the weak light of some fire she conjured once more. The tunnel grew taller, the stone more roughly hewn than the catacombs behind her. She reached the end of the passage, delineated by the arched gate that loomed into existence as if birthed by the shadows, parting before the light of her fire.

It rose tall above her, the stone gently sloping upwards to accommodate the height, the arched frame carved directly out of the natural limestone of the passage. It was smoothed to a pristine, if aged, surface. Wards of protection, oaths and declarations were carved deeply into it. The doors themselves, two huge solid slabs of wood closed shut, carved with raised reliefs of astronomical designs and bound with metal. The door was ancient, but overflowing with magic that kept it new.

 _This is it,_ she thought. _If I get past this door, I’ll have the book._

This was a door built to be unbreakable, to last for centuries. One witch, even a powerful one, could never hope to get it open. But the architect of this vault probably only had in mind pureblood wiccans, demons and humans. Hybrids were likely unthinkable. Surely, the mastermind of this must’ve reasoned, the coven will never allow a hybrid in its ranks. Surely there can never be a witch or warlock with the blood of the _aos sí_ in their veins, whose power cares nothing for witchcraft or demons.

Surely, nobody will come down here with the power and the knowledge of how to undermine the wards.

Tess scoffed bitterly and shook her head. She felt sorry for the creators of this place and she felt sorry for herself.

 _This is why it had to be me,_ she lamented. _I’m perfect for this theft. I’m the only one who can do it._

She huffed and entwined her fingers behind her head, staring at the doors with pursed lips. It would take a little doing to open it by force, but she felt she could do it. Undoing mass wards like this one was somewhat like unravelling cloth. You just had to find the right thread to loosen and pull, and the whole tapestry came undone. She’d long made a study of these kinds of things because it taught her how to subvert demonic seals of the same cast. While she still lived with the coven, her insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge and improvement had been admirable as it had been tiresome.

She approached the door and put her hands on it, feeling for the epicentre of the wards. She slid her palms along the surface of the wood and frowned. No loose ends. She’d have to force her way through the hard way.

She started to repeat a scratching of flinty words, an incantation to disrupt the great seal placed here. Not enough to undo it, just enough to leave a tiny hole that she could exploit. She felt it resist so she pressed harder, forcing it to yield and pull back like a curtain, just enough for her to make her assault. She stepped back and focused on that crack in the ward she’d created. The wood of the door started to darken and wither – time and decay were creeping up on it from the crack and she knew it had worked.

A flick of her hand towards the door was all it took. There was a build-up of pressure, a glimmer of flame pressing against the door before it exploded inwards, away from Tess. A flash of surging flames roared as the door disintegrated, the wards collapsing with it. The primal fire devoured wood and wards indiscriminately, rending them apart. Splinters and twisted metal pinged off the walls, clinging desperately to their original fixtures for all it was worth. A last blast mark was scorched on the ground where the door had stood by the time the fire extinguished itself in the last echo of its fury.

“Ugh…!”

Tess crumbled to her knees, hands on the carved stone floor, panting deeply. That had taken a lot out of her. Her neck started to hurt again, but she didn’t have the strength to stand up just yet so she bore it, shutting her eyes and just concentrating on her breathing. When the pain got too much for her to be able to breathe she stumbled onto her feet and moved forward.

The passage brought her to a large, domed room, carved out of the natural bedrock in an octagonal base that rose to a round dome. The walls were carved into several smaller recesses housing large, ornate sarcophagi. As she walked through the arch into the hall, torches on the walls came to life, spreading a flickering light in the hall. That’s when she saw that the floor was laid with pristine, dark marble and granite, like the pillars standing between the recesses. Statues of matronly figures and reverent sages, all bearing shields, stood between each recess.

Inevitably, her gaze was drawn to the middle of the room; a pedestal of hewn granite was flanked by two torches, held by two bronze snakes wrapped around the bases. A book lay demurely on the pedestal. Instinctively, she knew it was the Tome. She could feel its pull but she had to force herself to concentrate. She strode towards it decisively.

“I’m impressed, Tess.”

Tess stopped dead in her tracks, just a foot or two away from the book and cursed quietly, shutting her eyes in resignation. Honestly, she would’ve been surprised to _not_ encounter Regina down here, come to deal with her personally. She turned, calmly to face the High Priestess with a frosty look. Regina stood at the entrance she’d just come through, with her face a hard, grave mask of anger, her dark dress making her look, more than ever, the witch that she was.

“I knew you had potential, child, but to see that you’ve advanced enough to destroy ancient seals and terrorize the sentinels of our catacombs… you exceed my loftiest expectations.”

“Really,” Tess countered sharply. “Don’t you mean I’ve exceeded your highest suspicions? I think, Regina, that rather than impressed, you’re _fucking terrified_.”

Regina flinched at the accusation.

“You’re terrified because you were right: I _am_ powerful enough to have usurped you any time I wanted. Except I never cared about leading this coven,” Tess exploded, allowing her built-up anger show. “Because I figured your game out years ago. You’ve been blighting people with the power of demons and exploiting their loyalties so that you don’t have to dirty your own hands.”

“That is enough,” Regina snapped and stepped closer. “You’ve always had a sharp tongue, you little viper. Yet here you stand: the greatest betrayer of the coven, in the chamber of the Tome, about to steal it for the wretched masters you serve. You think I didn’t know?”

Tess glowered at her. “Then you understand that I have no choice.”

Her neck hurt again.

“You think it matters? It is treason is all the same,” Regina barked. “You never would submit and you never would do as you were told!”

“And that’s what bothers you,” Tess smirked angrily. “I never would be a puppet like your son. But I guess that’s how you are. Even your own blood is a problem is he doesn’t do as he’s told. What did he do exactly; try to experiment without your okay?”

Mentioning Ricardo seemed to enrage Regina the most and she flicked her hand at Tess. “He sought knowledge that wasn’t his to have. And just like him, you’ve learned more than what was allowed for you.”

“Regina, back down. Stop this before it goes further than it already has. Let go of the damned book, I can tell you’ve indulged,” Tess said coldly. “You may not have embraced a demonic power but you sure as hell have been using them. The taint is all over you.”

And surely, Tess could see the black, sickly streaks veining her otherwise bright aura.

“You ungrateful little mongrel,” Regina muttered, her voice dripping with anger and disgust. “I tolerated the presence of your filthy blood in my coven and this is how you repay me. You are your father’s child, after all. A murderer and a traitor.”

Tess’ body tensed. She knew what was coming and she didn’t like it. But she wouldn’t tolerate it. “You don’t know _anything_ about what my father was like. So I’ll thank you to keep him out of your filthy mouth, you pitiful old bag.”

Regina palmed her face with one hand and laughed, a shrill, acidic cackle that made Tess wince. “You shall not have the book. I care nothing for your masters. You will be stopped.”      

Tess felt the tightening of the air before she even sensed the spell. She teleported away from where she stood, just in time to evade a dark circle of binding that formed on the ground like a burn mark, emitting a foul, smoke-like aura. Tess responded with a wide swath of flame as soon as she had moved, causing Regina to hold her hands out, mutter a word and disperse the flames. She pointed her hand to Tess and started to scream a clutch of bitter words.

Tess held both her arms out, shouting an incantation herself, flighty, crackling words like electricity. A circle traced itself in fire before her, gathering power. Two invisible forces collided in a single front with the crackling and grinding of stone as the chamber shook violently from the pressure of the two spells colliding. The torches lining the room flickered dangerously low. Eventually the forces negated each other with a booming noise, forcing the two women to stumble backwards.

They paused for a long moment, regarding each other like dogs poised for combat.

What followed was a flurry of alternating spells as the two witches engaged in combat as only witches do – an unseen combat fought by invisible forces invoked by the two combatants, aimed at subverting each other’s powers and leaving the hapless victim vulnerable to a more direct attack. They both spoke, Regina using hard, sharp words full of anger while Tess’ incantations followed an almost musical tempo to carry their power. Circles were traced and breached in succession, fading from view as others appeared in their place like forms rising in water or shapes seared into flesh. Forces collided and negated each other in turn. The chamber was rocked by the powers at play, statues rocking on their bases before toppling over and smashing – even the heavy lids of the sarcophagi rattled from the din.

Both women were on the move, constantly flitting in opposing circles, an eerie harmony of gesticulating arms and lips moving in silent invocations. To an ignorant viewer, they might as well have been engaged in a strange form of symmetrical interpretive dance.  

Eventually, Regina seemed to realize that she and Tess were pretty evenly matched – and by look on her face, she seemed deeply unhappy about it, something confirmed by the angry, frustrated cry she let loose before she blew Tess back with a sudden surge of a foreign, unnatural power. She spoke two acidic words and a mass of black energy rose from her shadow, penetrated Tess’ wards and flung her backwards against one of the sarcophagi.

Tess groaned as she slumped against it, dazed from the sudden hit. Even so she knew what she’d sensed. Regina was done screwing around and playing her true hand. She was starting to use spells she knew from the Tome. They had to be, because somehow Regina had struck at her with powers distinctly demonic in nature. Before she could stop another assault, the furious priestess repeated the process, seizing her in a mass of the same power and throwing her against the walls of the chamber again and again, slamming her on the floor before dragging her across it and flinging her into one of the statues.

Despite the assault of pain, Tess ground her teeth and focused, pulling off an instantaneous teleportation between throws that broke her free from the spells grasp. It broke Regina’s line of sight and Tess kept on teleporting around the room as fast as she could manage, preventing Regina from ‘locking on’ to her again to resume the assault. It was exhausting to strain her skill with teleporting this rapidly but it had to be done, ignoring the blood running from her nose and burst lip.

She retaliated with a series of rapid consecutive blasts of raw fire, abandoning whatever witchcraft Regina could expect. Regina belted out several whispery words and her own shadow came alive and wreathed her protectively with demonic forces she was summoning through her own shadow. Regina shielded herself well but Tess just increased the intensity of her barrage. One powerful blast hit directly from the side, forcing Regina off balance and back towards a wall. Tess felt sweat running down her back from the intensity of the fight and the heat of the fire. Her head throbbed and her neck was on fire.

Regina was weakening, regardless of her use of demon-taught tricks. Tess caught a break when a direct blast knocked Regina off her feet and into the wall, causing her to lose her concentration. Tess felt Regina’s control over her wards slipping and dove at the chance. She closed in while Regina was reeling, and attacked the high priestess with a furious heel-kick to the abdomen.

Oh, sure, they both were potent witches but experience had taught Tess that when you _really_ wanted to hurt another wiccan, it really was better to do it with your own bare hands. Relying on witchcraft alone can have its drawbacks. The kick stunned Regina further, who probably had never been struck in her life before, and was further assaulted by a beautiful left hook as Tess’ fist connected with her jaw. With an angry but triumphant growl, Tess grabbed her by the back of the head and with a vicious yank, slammed Regina’s face right into her knee. She didn’t want to kill Regina, regardless of what she’d done, just knock her out. But Regina foiled her plans.

She remained conscious despite the powerful blow to the head and with a shrill, frustrated scream, regained control of the demonic shadow manipulation, to fling Tess off her feet and onto the floor. Regina stood straight, furiously muttering a long incantation. Tess could feel the entire room trembling and the intense, murderous hate on Regina’s battered face gave her chills. Blood was running freely from the priestess’ nose and passing over her grimacing mouth with clenched teeth – the effect making her looks turn feral and beastly.

Tess watched Regina’s shadow spread across the floor until he covered the entire surface of it. Tendrils of it rose up like smoke and Tess felt herself sinking in it. She knew what Regina was doing, some powerful incantation she’d gleamed from the Tome of Rites: Trying to open a crack to Hell itself.

“Regina! Regina, no!!” she screamed.

Her words fell on deaf ears as Tess panicked. She wasn’t even sure how it happened, in the end. She lashed out with a protective ward and all the reserves of her own power.

The next thing she knew, the power gathering was fading, the shadows beaten back by a large, brilliant flame. Regina was screaming. The high priestess was on fire like a wick. Her screaming seemed to go on forever as she flailed with her robes and body on fire, ducking this way and that, running like a frenzied horse let loose in the field. Nothing would put the fire out and Tess, petrified at what she’d done, backed up against a wall, aghast in utter horror. She watched Regina thrash, stumbling about while the conflagration consumed her. She had no mind to use witchcraft anymore and the fire ate away at her body. The foul stench of seared flesh filled the chamber and Tess made a strangled scream as Regina hurled herself towards her.

Regina fell to the floor, making choked, gurgling noises and Tess could no longer look. She shut her eyes and slid to the floor with her back firmly against the wall, grabbing her head while trying to breathe. The full brunt of her act dawned on her and it was horrifying. She’d killed before but this was the first time she’d ever burned someone alive and it was the most horrible thing she’d ever experienced. She was so completely shocked that she ignored even the painful throb of her neck, the hot, suffocating pain that pressed her on. She couldn’t move from the spot for shock. She needed several moments to recover enough and tremulously stand up. Regina’s body still smoldered and the charred and pitiful remains lay in a curled heap, her hands clutching like the withered talons of a bird.

Tess felt sick rising to her mouth from the sight and smell of it, turning away hurriedly, unable to bear the assault on her senses. She staggered over to the book, trying to ignore the pain of her throbbing neck. In the half light of the torches it looked so demure; it was unexpectedly small but thick and plump like a well-fed cat, in its handsome, weathered leather with metal binding and wooden toggles. She put her hands out to pick it up, somewhat fearfully.

Immediately she felt like two hands dropped on her shoulders, weighing her down and holding her in place. Her head felt like it was about to split open. She winced and shut her eyes against it but then opened them again as she sensed a presence.

Two frozen, bony hands were gripping her wrists firmly, holding her hands against the book. She was staring into and the dark eyes of a wraith-like woman, whose face loomed just inches away from hers. The same woman as her earlier vision, more ragged, more tormented. Her face was bone white with hollow cheeks and torn lips. Tess felt her mouth sag as she was fixated in place by the wraith that leaned over the pedestal to look at her closely. She looked… disgusted by what she was seeing.

“Take it,” she said unexpectedly clearly, though her voice was ragged. “Give it to them. You will taste its poison all the same.” The woman relinquished her and started to fade. “What evil comes of this book… will be _your_ doing.”

Tess stumbled back from the pedestal as the wraith floated back and away from her, holding the book. It felt unexpectedly heavy and she loathed having to touch it. It felt… tainted. And now she was tainted too. It crawled up her spine like a snake.

Tess saw the wraith move as she faded, to stop front of the pedestal of a statue that had fallen over in the earlier fight, revealing a chain that went into the wall. Tess flew at it without quite knowing why and yanked on the chain hard. A heavy grinding noise echoed from beside the chain and a slab of stone shuffled inwards and aside, revealing a narrow passage.

Tess stared dumbly at the almost cliché secret passage but she counted her blessings and raced into it. She didn’t want to linger in the same chamber as Regina’s charred body anymore. She clutched the horrible book against her chest, suffering the sick feeling it gave her, and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If you're reading this as part of a completed work, I have something very important to tell you! 1. THANK YOU! 2. This is your mandatory rest stop. Drink some water, get up, stretch, then go to sleep and come back in the morning. It'll still be here ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein something really bad happens. Best read to Athlete's "Chances". You'll know where to start it.

If anyone had ever called Dante a skirt-chaser to his face, he would’ve laughed it off and made a few saucy jokes himself. Now though, he failed to see the comedy of the situation. The tension he’d felt in Amaro’s air had reached a plateau that was decidedly unnatural. Not quite like Fortuna; there were no demons roaming the streets – not yet anyway – nor was there some giant floating statue about to unleash doom upon the world or any Hell Gates to shut but… it was there. Like was a pustule about to burst.

And here he was, chasing after his old friend who probably held the only answers in this entire clusterfuck but who wouldn’t stop for love or money, just silently beckoning him to follow. He had a vague sense that she was leading him back towards the coven’s haven. They hadn’t run into anyone on the way but Dante suspected that a lot of people were either cowering in their homes or had vacated the town.

He was unsurprised to find himself treading down the same streets as he had earlier to get to the damn place. He slowed down. He didn’t see her anymore but he was dead certain she wanted him to go back to the coven. He didn’t expect to find the street busy – people were fleeing from the coven. Dante sensed nothing unnatural about them, other than the faint signature of wiccan powers and they gave him a very wide berth. Something scared them more than he did.

He heard screams coming from inside the building, angry, desperate cries.

“La Alta!! La Alta è morta! Lei è morta!! È MORTA!”

Funny how he suddenly understood perfectly well what they were saying. _Huh... she’s dead?_ he thought. _No wonder they’re losing their heads._

“Where?! Dov'è lei? Where is La Alta?!”

“Nella camera! Lei è morta!! Il libro è andato! The book, it is gone!!”

“Trovare l'assassino!!”

“It was the girl! Con i capelli rossi! She was here! She was here!!”

Now Dante’s brow quirked upwards. Tess? An assassin? He suddenly recalled what the wiccans chasing Tess in the first place had been saying and things got a lot less funny. They had called her a murderer. Could she possibly have...? The structure of the palazzo loomed ahead of him and he briefly considered trying to burst through the wards to get inside and find out what was going on, but then something happened that upset all of his plans.

Tess came running from the rear side of the palazzo, clutching something against her chest. She was glancing backwards so she didn’t immediately see him but as she looked forward again her green eyes were wide as saucers and her mouth hung open in a frozen expression of surprise and panic. She almost ran into him again but just before impact she vanished and he whipped around to catch her reappearing, in a thin gauze of smoke, ahead of him, running like a pursued fox.

It occurred to him that the wiccans were most likely after Tess.

Of course he chased her down. There was nothing else to do. She had answers and he was just _done_. Somehow it was easier to follow her now – she probably was tired at last. He let her run off so they’d get away from the coven’s immediate vicinity but once they had left it behind, he caught up with her easily and grabbed her arm to force her to stop, eliciting a startled scream from her.

“Alright, enough, of this stupid game,” he snapped. “Stop. I’m done chasing you around this freakin’ circus of a town all day.”

She just about panicked, yanking her arm to force him to let go. “No, no—no, let go of me, let go of me!”

He didn’t. He had her now and he wanted answers. “No. You’re going to tell me what’s going on, what you’re up to and where Vergil is,” he said sternly.

At the sound of the name she froze, stopping mid-motion to free her arm and stared at him with the most terrified look he ever remembered seeing on her face. Her hair was tangled and her face was smudged with what looked like soot with streaks where perspiration had rolled down her skin. Up close he could unconsciously appreciate what age had done for her. Her features had rounded nicely, her face clear and feminine, but he could still see the teenager in the stubborn set of her jaw and the cute burst of freckles across her nose.

“I can’t—I can’t!” she choked and started struggling again.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

She struggled harder, clutching the book she carried to her chest one-handed. “I can’t—you need to leave. Just—just leave, please!”

He ignored her pleas. “Did you kill that high priestess lady?”

She seemed to panic even more at his question. “I-I had to. Now please let me go, _just let me go_!”

He didn’t like being this forceful, an iron grip on her arm; her thrashing was so desperate he was afraid she’d pull her own arm out of its socket. Heck, she could’ve hit him with a spell or something if she wanted to but instead she just...

“Tell me what’s going on and I can _help_ you, Tess!” he snapped.

“You... can’t...!” she muttered. “You shouldn’t even be here! Don’t get involved! Just take the dumb kid that’s come with you and _leave_!”

Dante’s eyebrow quirked. So, she knew Nero, too. Was she there when Vergil attacked him? “Too late for that, sweetheart,” he said grimly. “I’m already involved and it’s personal – and I think you damn well know that it is. I got a call saying you were here – with _Vergil_.”

That got her attention. She stopped squirming and stared at him incredulously. “Wha—who called you...?” she blurted, and her face fell in a way that told Dante that somewhere in her head a shoe had finally dropped. “Ricardo...” she said flatly. “Oh... Dante, you... you idiot.”

Dante stared at her incredulously. Really, calling him an idiot? She did all this, had him running around the town and now she called him an idiot?

“Careful, Tess,” he hissed and squeezed her arm faintly. “I’m not in a mood to entertain bullshit.”

“Well what do you expect me to do?” she shouted back at him. “Congratulate you for falling into such an obvious fucking trap?!”

Then she suddenly winced and shrugged defensively as if someone had struck her. She tried to pull her arm away once more, finding resistance but refusing to let her arm relax.

“Of course I know it’s a trap, stupid,” he snapped in return. “And you are obviously in on it. But that’s my damn business. So why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me where Vergil is,” he said and his voice dropped to a dangerous low pitch. “Unless, you’re working with him...”

She flinched and looked away from him. “You _need_ to walk away from this.”

He felt his face betraying his disappointment, maybe even his anger too. “You’ve changed, Tess,” he said ominously.

She wouldn’t look at him. “Let go of me…!”

His chest burned. He was so angry. Angry at her, at Vergil, at the stupid alchemist, at himself – it took everything he had to not let it take control. Betrayal was something that would always sting him the worst. When Trish had turned on him it really was only resemblance to his mother that stayed his hand. Tess did not have such a boon. For all intents and purposes, his old friend was gone. The Tess he had known would’ve rather died than worked with demons or anyone dabbling with them.

That was another lifetime, it seemed. Albrecht’s ominous last words rang too true: _Wickedness is in our blood._

“What, so you can run off to Vergil and help him screw me over, _witch_?” he spat.

She relaxed suddenly, her arm going largely limp in his hand. She looked really afraid now and in a sick way, he enjoyed that.

“You wouldn’t understand…!” she hissed.

It was almost fortunate that an interruption broke them apart because he didn’t know what he would’ve done in response to that. He sensed the surging energies – familiar, nostalgic and yet terrifying energies. He pushed her away and jumped back just as she mimicked him, before a mass of glowing blue swords hurtled vertically down to crash on the very spot he had stood not a moment earlier.

He felt his chest tighten, still struggling with the hot pain of anger. Vergil walked onto the scene with a calm, precise step, confident as ever and without a shred of hesitation. Dante thought to himself that the photograph hadn’t done him any justice. He stood tall and broad, dressed to the nines as always, a perfect mirror image of him, just contorted by whatever had happened to him, his skin bone-white and marked by the corruption, his eyes deep black and red holes.

Dante had no doubt that this was really his brother. He could feel it in his bones.

“And here I thought you’d never get around to properly greeting me,” Dante said, forcing a smarmy smile on his face.

Vergil favored him only a disdainful simper, an expression Dante had seen a lot on his face the last time they met – the last time they _really_ met, on top of the Temen-Ni-Gru tower. Whatever had happened on Mallet Island, that thing wasn’t really his brother.

“Yes, what a neglectful host I am,” he sneered in return. “However, I don’t remember inviting you this time. But I’m sure you understand, considering the end of our last encounter.”

Dante winced. “Whatever happened to you was outta my hands. You forced me to—“

“Spare me your pathetic grandstanding,” Vergil snapped. “I have no interest in amends or the past. What’s done is done. What matters is now.”

Dante was all incredulity, rooted on the spot. “What happened to you, Vergil?” he asked quietly.

Vergil unexpectedly smiled; a savage, scornful smile. “Does it really matter that much, Dante?” he said, with twisted amusement. “Has your memory eluded you that much? I seem to recall that you killed me. That should be enough.”

Dante felt his anger flaring and he scowled. “Then why are you here? Why _now_?”

“I don’t see why I need to disclose anything to you,” Vergil said with an indifferent shrug then his gaze snapped to Tess.

She had backed away, against the wall of a building, still gripping that book to her chest and looking between them, silent. She nearly jumped when Vergil looked at her.

“Bring me the Tome,” he told her sharply. He topped it with a flick of the wrist, as if calling a dog.

“Don’t do this, Vergil,” Dante blurted. “Whatever this is, just leave it alone. You—“

“Silence!” Vergil snapped at him and pushed the Yamato out of its scabbard with a flick of his thumb, ready for a fight.

Dante drew his gun in response, aiming it at Vergil’s head, finding it harder and harder to contain himself. The tension in the air was like the tightly-wound wire of a piano. All it would take would be one little thing to make it snap. Dante grit his teeth; the demon in him wanted a fight _now_. He was sure that Vergil was fighting against a similar urge – they always did.

Tess pushed off the wall and quietly approached Vergil, clutching the book to her chest and looking at the ground in utter defeat. When she reached him, she wordlessly held the book out to him, almost reverently. Her hair now obscured her face. Vergil took the book from her, inspecting it for a moment then, tucked it away in an inner pocket of his coat while returning his gaze straight toward Dante once more.

Dante watched the entire sequence with an angry frown, gritting his teeth and his hand tightening dangerously around the grip of Ivory. So he had been right. This was all one big set up and the joke was on him. She was Vergil’s accomplice. With no excuse, no regret, no desire to explain herself. She just obeyed Vergil. What was she getting out of it? Revenge on the coven? Power? Both?

It didn’t matter anymore.

Anger, hot, searing anger, took over, completely and utterly. The demon fed on the fury and demanded satisfaction. Vergil must’ve seen the twitch in Dante’s eye because they attacked simultaneously. Drawing their swords, they met halfway with a thunderous clash of metal. A sonic boom sailed forth from the point of impact, such was the force of their collision. The windows of every building around them rattled in the wake of it. They struggled, blades locked together for a few brief seconds.

Dante sensed the counter before Vergil even executed it, the memory of an identical break haunting him since Temen-Ni-Gru. Instead of resisting, this time he went with it, pulling his sword away and taking advantage of the split-second opening to deliver a heel-kick to Vergil’s knee. It succeeded in pushing Vergil back, but he simply countered by using his scabbard to deliver a hard horizontal strike to Dante’s head. They parted, reeling, just to attack from range, Dante drawing his gun and firing and Vergil responding with a flurry of summoned swords.

Their battle was hard and fast, like it always was. Mercy was for humans. They never spared each other the thought of it. The windows, the walls, even the ground underfoot rattled and trembled with every clash of their blades. Dante hadn’t fought someone who could actually equal him in skill in a very long time, with Vergil's savage blows serving to be all too clear a reminder. But he too had managed to get a few vicious hits through Vergil’s impeccable defenses.

The more this went on, though, the less he thought straight. He plunged headlong into instinct. He felt the demon buried in him relish in this violence, thriving in this savage battle. He could practically hear Vergil’s own demonic side roaring in the same delight as his. It started to show, his hands would crackle with demonic power, flashes of his demon form bleeding through in his gleaming eyes and his bestial hands. Vergil was always more controlled, only allowing the cold, hard azure glow in his eyes to give away that he was descending into his demonic nature.

Becoming so engrossed in their mutual attempts to destroy each other, they lost sense of time. Nothing else existed outside this sphere of combat.

When he landed a particularly savage vertical blow to Vergil, sending him reeling, he was prepared to follow through with it no matter what. Seeing that the blow sent Vergil to a knee with his hand over his face, Dante registered it as a glaring weakness and lunged for a potentially killing blow.

So he roared in indignation when a powerful, solid, yet barely, visible barrier repelled him violently with a reverberating din.

A blast of fire forced him to backpedal. Dante snarled, enraged, as Tess rushed between him and Vergil with a hardened, inscrutable expression, muttering what was evidently the shield she created that had so successfully interrupted them. Had he been in a clear mind he might’ve admired the bravery it took to step in the middle of a fight between them, or the kind of power it took to stop him. He might’ve even wondered why exactly she was risking her neck to shield Vergil, or why he was tolerating it, still on his knees and having some kind of fit. He might’ve noticed that errant azure energy crackled along his twin’s body and for a split-second, his form flickered between his own and the twisted bulk of Nelo Angelo.

But as things were, all he felt was anger and all he saw was an inconvenience.

“Get out of my way!” he snarled and rushed headlong into her, intending to shove her aside.

She just gritted her teeth and repelled him again, with a stronger explosion of fire that knocked him backwards, skidding across the cobblestones as he regrouped. Vergil rejoined the fray, renewing his assault upon Dante, summoning a flurry of gleaming blue swords that hovered around Dante in a macabre dance, before they hurtled for him, forcing Dante to resort to his dodging skills, practically teleporting himself to Vergil. They clashed once more, but this time his blow sent Vergil stumbling backwards.

Dante snatched upon this clear sign of weakness, and, with a feral grin on his face, renewed his assault, swinging Rebellion hard. He caught Vergil as he raised Yamato to defend himself and pushed him back further. He might’ve even caused Vergil’s arm some serious damage because as he watched, Vergil stumbled back and his sword arm dropped, his face transfixed in an expression of impotent fury. Dante sheathed his sword, whipping out his guns with a self-indulgent twirl, charging some raw demonic energy. This would undoubtedly give Vergil something to really hurt about.

A circle of power blazed up under him, spoiling his fun as Tess shouted a sharp, cutting word. Dante felt the energies closing around him, trying to restrain and control. He rebelled, flaring his own power, and, with a bit of effort beat them back, shattering the circle under him with a palpable crack and the sound of shattering metal. Undaunted, Tess assaulted him with raw fire, blast after blast, but each was anticipated by a perfectly aimed shot from Ebony and Ivory.

Vergil regained his footing, readying himself for his next assault. Dante saw him and it was all he could think of. Get to him. Get to him and wipe that sneer off his face. Get to him and beat the living hell out of him again and again.

He sensed the gathering of foreign energies once more – another damned interference! His demonic side lost it. How dare this insignificant little human interfere in their glorious battle? His whole form crackled with the gathered demonic power surging through him. He whipped his arm aside in a display of effortless, precision accuracy—

It wasn’t the loud, deafening blast of the gun or the powerful recoil that would’ve shattered a mortal’s arm that snapped him out of it. It wasn’t the palpable crack as the wiccan powers of the shield broke apart.

Her tiny gasp did.

Dante blinked and the snarl fixed on his face relaxed.

The bullet, charged with dark crimson power and crackling with energy, had shattered her potent, personal shield. The shield had absorbed most of its demonic power but the bullet had traveled on, unimpeded by such trifling matters as physics. She froze. Her arm dropped and the movement of her coat revealed a frighteningly big bullet hole on her side, right below the ribs. The bullet traveled cleanly through her, exiting out the back and lodging itself into the ground. Her face, previously set in determination, relaxed into confusion followed by terror, then pain and finally settled into a terrible, blank expression.

Her eyes rolled up as she fell; her knees went first and her torso twisted as she went down. Softly impacting the cobblestones without a sound, her head lolled around to face him, one arm stretched like a broken wing and the other limp over her stomach. A pool of blood bloomed grimly under her, staining her dark clothes. A choked breath sent a spray of blood and a rivulet of red began to trickle from her mouth. Her eyes glazed like faded baubles. But for the briefest of moments she looked exactly like the strange girl he had once shared jokes with, bickered with and lost.

Dante felt like someone had plunged him in frozen water. His demonic side, enraged and baying for blood silenced at once, pausing, suspended in the moment. When exactly had he pulled the trigger? Why didn’t he remember doing it? He hadn’t even aimed, had he? And he had nearly pulled the trigger again, out of sheer habit. It would’ve been meaningless; humans never survived more than a single shot from either of his guns—

The thought seized him like an icy claw just as her eyes dimmed.

_I shot her._

He had never in his life questioned a shot that he’d fired, confident in his supernatural accuracy and gift with firearms. He’d never regretted a shot until now.

_Why did I shoot her? I never… I never think twice when the bullet’s halfway down the barrel!_

Did he shoot to kill or— No, he remembered. He shot her because _she was in the way_.

She was in the way of his duel with Vergil. Because his demon wanted her out of the way so he could clash with Vergil. Because she didn’t matter, only the thrill of battle mattered. Besides, his demon insisted, she was the enemy. She attacked him, she tried to stop him, she was with Vergil now—

His soul, his human soul, rebelled. A stab of pain unlike anything he knew burrowed its way outwards from his chest.

“Tess—“

The impact of Yamato running him through, straight through the chest cut his voice short. Vergil’s face, contorted in anger, loomed before him, demanding his attention. Dante groaned and succeeded in tearing his gaze away from the dying witch. A third party might’ve been fooled into thinking that Vergil’s relentless assault was revenge for the fallen minion – as if. Vergil had simply seen an opening in Dante’s defenses and taken it. Twisting the blade, Vergil pushed it ever deeper further into Dante’s chest.

“Ever the fool, Dante…” Vergil whispered to him.

The tremor came before anything else could be said or done, approaching their location quickly as if some gigantic animal was galloping their way. A huge off-white beast, halfway between dragon and man skidded into the street, demolishing the corner of a building in its way. It bellowed in a deep, distorted voice.

**“BASTARDS! MURDERERS!!”**

Everything happened so fast that Dante really never got a close look at the demon, just the hybrid body shape and a flash of smooth, reflective steel. Then the beast swung a brawny arm clad in pale armor at the twins, swiping Vergil away with a thud. It sent Vergil absolutely flying, tearing Yamato from Dante’s chest at the same time. Before Dante fell, the demon caught him in the rebound and with a powerful backhand, flung him straight across the area, sending him to crash into the side of a building, leaving a cavernous dent and cracks all the way up to the building’s roof.

Dante groaned, confused, rolling his head forward just to watch the demon scramble towards a motionless Tess. He reached for his gun but before he could steady his aim, the demon snatched her up, impossibly delicately. It cradled her in its large hands and stared at her with the nervous head twitches of an animal. As blood stained its hide red it let loose a baleful howl, then launched itself with a powerful leap onto a nearby rooftop, smashing the tiles underfoot. From there it charged towards the waterfront, bounding from rooftop to rooftop until it vanished from Dante’s sight. He let his gun arm drop, releasing a frustrated snarl.  


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Nero finds out a few things he didn't want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I predict oodles of complaining and screaming about what's written here. All I'll say is that I've said for years that Capcom likes their lazy-ass writing and recycling plot points. I prefer to go with what I feel makes for a more interesting story.

Nero remembered grumbling once about Fortuna’s narrow, claustrophobic streets, back before the city became a demon cesspit. After Amaro though, even the narrowest, filthiest alley in Fortuna would feel like a bloody freeway. He’d wish whoever laid out the city’s plans would rot in the deepest shit hole of Hell, but he doubted any single mind would’ve come up with this mess of streets and alleys. He had a goal at least this time, but it had taken terrorizing a few wiccans, even if they turned out to be more petrified than dangerous.

He had no luck in tracking Ricardo himself; however Nero had encountered a few other wiccans who were evidently evacuating the town. After they stopped panicking at the sight of him, they fearfully pointed him in the direction of their coven’s sanctuary. They’d all told him that Ricardo had been expelled for putting the coven in danger and apparently, had returned for some revenge.

He didn’t need to ask them why they were fleeing the city. He could feel it in the air well enough on his own, a sick _tightness_ with an underlying taste of the demonic. His arm was reacting to it strangely, giving him a weird sensation, almost like pins and needles, like nothing he’d ever felt before. There were no demons roaming the streets, but something was about to happen in Amaro and its people wanted nothing to do with it. He felt kind of sorry for them, in all honesty. Whatever they were, human or wiccan, they were clearly frightened of what was transpiring, wanting only to get to safety.

He on the other hand, wanted to be right in the middle of it, because that’s where Dante and Vergil were sure to be.

When he finally found the coven’s haven, a large, severe but kind of squat edifice, it failed to impress him. It might’ve passed for an achievement of the early Renaissance, but compared to the splendor of Fortuna and the Order’s castle, it looked positively shabby.

Its wards and protection, however, would’ve probably given that asshole, Agnus, a boner. Even Nero, far from an expert on the subject, could tell that there were multiple layers of them and they were actively making him want to keep his distance. At least he could sense it was an effect of the wards, rather than any real reluctance on his own part as a human might’ve assumed. The place seemed to be turtling. His arm was reacting quite strongly to the wards even from five feet away. He almost wanted to punch his way through it, but that would probably take a long time. Besides, after his recent experiences, he didn’t look forward to finding out just how these wards could affect him.

Instead he chose to follow the scuffing of feet and the cries of pain coming from nearby, realizing with some mirth that he seemed to be following a lot of screams lately.

He darted in the direction of the noises, following the main street up towards the mountain. He came upon Ricardo, of all people. The alchemist stood over several people, all dressed as Nicodemus had been, strewn across the cobblestones. At first glance, Nero thought they were dead but then he saw their chests moving, albeit slowly.

“They’re merely in torpor,” Ricardo said, wiping his brow. “My grievances are not with them. I have had quite a time escaping them and they simply would not desist. I had no other choice than to resort to some rather aggressive sorcery to put them into slumber.”

Nero immediately drew the Blue Rose and pointed it at him. “Glad I caught up,” he snapped. “Thought I saw the last of you when Nicky scared you off. Guess you forgot to mention that _you_ made him into that demon.”

Ricardo faced him properly and favored him with a calm, grim look that was a sharp contrast to the earlier, nervous wreck he’d played at being. “No. I simply _chose_ to omit that information as it had no relevance to the matter at hand,” he said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Besides, I understand that the Order sought to exploit the same principals, and you do not appear to have taken so kindly to the fact – entirely justified, if I may add. It is, after all, something so easy to exploit for evil.”

Nero twitched at the mention of the Order. He loathed remembering that mess, seeing how low the Order had sunk – he remembered Credo most of all. He had always looked up to Credo grudgingly, even when their opinions had become so radically diverged and they could hardly speak to each other without a suppressed irritation that bordered on enmity. It had been a blow, to say the least, to see Credo giving himself over so easily and believing to the bitter end that he had done the right thing.  

“Then why do it?” he growled.

Ricardo sighed and assumed an expression as though the answer were painfully obvious. “Survival, of course. Oh don’t give me that look,” he sneered at Nero’s scoff.

“It is all well and good for you, with your power and skill, to look down on us… _mere_ humans,” Ricardo said scornfully. “You don’t know what it’s like to struggle for survival. You’ve tasted Vergil’s power first-hand. Wiccans like me have a measure of power, but we _are_ painfully mortal. We are still human. We could never compete. Even a mere human can murder a wiccan if they go about it right, let along demons. I resent having done it, but I shall not regret it. Besides, if I hadn’t, _I’d_ be dead.”

“Why?”

Ricardo shrugged and gestured to the slumbering people around me. “These people, my former allies, have put a death mark upon my head. Because my insufferable, power-mongering, paranoid chit of a mother was not satisfied.”

Nero blinked at him, confused. “Your mother?”

“Oh, forgive me. I assumed Nicodemus mentioned it—the leader of the coven, La Alta, is my… birth mother,” Ricardo said, his tone better suited to talking about the vilest of refuse. “As much of a mother as she could be, always disparaging me for my frailty and my interest in the alchemical arts. Never stopped her from exploiting my talents anyway.”

“Why would she make you do this?” Nero asked, although he suspected the answer would just smack a lot of Sanctus.

Ricardo regarded him quite coldly. “Do you know what is hidden within the coven’s grounds? A book; a grimoire of unimaginable power. We were meant to safeguard it from misuse but…” he laughed wryly. “It’s pathetic how many of the coven’s leaders have fallen prey to the temptation it presents. My… mother is merely its latest victim. She hoards it and its secrets for herself, paranoid that it will be stolen. If I had not indulged in her desire for a powerful guard, she would have executed me herself.”

“So you turned them all into demons,” Nero muttered.

“Ah, ah! No. They are not ‘ascended’, as I believe your Order called them,” the alchemist retorted, wagging his finger. “An ambitious experiment, certainly, but I’m afraid the Order’s methods were deeply flawed from the very beginning. It was destined to fail.”

Nero’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What do _you_ know about what the Order was doing?”

Ricardo chuckled indulgently. “Wherever do you think the Order got the idea _from_? I’ve no doubt there was some hapless alchemist, or perhaps a dozen or more, and quite a few wiccans who were pressed for their secrets of soul and essence manipulation. Or maybe they threw their lot in with the Order, who knows? But once the Order got what they wanted, they decided my kind was a threat – because we knew what they were getting up to.”

“So that’s what the witch hunting was really about…?” Nero muttered.

Ricardo nodded and flicked his arm upwards in a very lackadaisical way. “A lot of hot air for nothing, in fact.  What the Order was using was rather crude transubstantiation of the soul—ah. I see I’ve lost you.”

Nero’s arm, aiming the gun at Ricardo, slowly lowered. He was slightly baffled that Ricardo seemed to know an awful lot about what the Order had been doing, things that even now Nero hadn’t quite understood.

“How do you know all this?” he blurted.

The alchemist shrugged. “I studied them, of course, as best I could without getting myself killed.” He chuckled. “And let me tell you, over the last year I learned more than I have in ten years. And I suppose I should thank you and that demon hunter for that.”

Nero just growled in response.

“The Order claimed they became endowed with angelic powers. Rubbish. All they did was become demons. Whatever their outward appearance of reason and humanity, it would erode _very_ quickly, let me assure you,” Ricardo said gravely.

Nero twitched. “They’d become more demonic…?”

Ricardo held his hands out, making the point clear. “Feral, yes. Because you see, they didn’t bother with separating the corruptive qualities of the demon essence from the power they so craved. In other words, they were eating spoiled fruit dressed as ambrosia. It would return to hound them and the world, in time.”

Nero’s face hardened. Agnus’ words rang through his head once again and he angrily thought that if anyone deserved what Ricardo said, it was the goddamn mad scientist. “So what did you do different?”

Ricardo beamed proudly. “Oh I solved that little problem a while ago,” he said genially. “The demonic endowments I bestowed upon La Alta’s personal guard are far more stable than anything the Order ever produced, I think. You see, with my process… the demonic essence is distilled into directionless power; it merely needs something to direct it. The soul and mind remain entirely uncorrupted. Yes, they may be a little weaker and retain too many human characteristics but… at least they will remain capable of reason! And _humanity_. Why, I’ve even used the process on _myself_.”

Nero scoffed in disgust. “Seriously?! You’re trying to excuse yourself by saying you did _better_?” he snapped. “That’s bullshit. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the exact same thing!”

Ricardo shook his head. “I see you fail to understand. I told you when we first met, you know, why I do this. Vergil has someone very dear to me, in his grasp. You’ve tasted his power first-hand, haven’t you!? And for her, I will do anything. _Anything_. Even ply my arts for his benefit—“

Nero started. “What did you just say?!”

“—even become a loathsome demon myself – but you would know of that, wouldn’t you? I can see it on your face!”

“Shut up!” Nero barked. “What makes you think you know anything about me?”

He did not want to admit that once he’d said something very similar and used the justification for the things he did. He never regretted what he did or who he was now but… to have it thrown at his face by this alchemist was only making him angry, because he knew in his gut that it was… _wrong_. He hadn’t sought out this power, it was thrust upon him. But what was the difference?

Ricardo let a strange, bark-like laugh. “More than you do, apparently!”

Nero’s face froze in an expression of disbelief. His voice dropped to a dangerous low pitch. “What?” he deadpanned.

Ricardo regarded him with a curious, scrutinizing gaze. Then he chuckled in disbelief before he stopped himself, covering his mouth with his hand and rubbing his chin. “Good grief. You _really_ don’t know, then.”

“Know what?!” Nero snapped, almost raising his gun at him again. “How about you drop the cryptic bullshit?!”

Ricardo held out his arms in a placating gesture. “As you wish. Tell me then; are you still searching for Vergil?”

“What do you think?” Nero barked.

“Are you aware what happened between him and Dante? Few do, even I don’t have all the details,” Ricardo mused. “You see… Dante _killed_ Vergil quite some time ago.”

Nero stared, the revelation that Ricardo clearly expected not dawning. “If you tell me that I got attacked by a zombie, I swear I’m going to shoot you,” he said flatly.

A sharp laugh escaped Ricardo before he cleared his throat. “No. I cannot pretend to know the exact circumstances of his apparent resurrection, only that he lives and I assisted in his recovery. His death was very important to the Order of the Sword, however.” He chuckled again. “I wonder what that says about the cult that worshiped his father.”

Now this, Nero had some inkling of. He knew that the Order had somehow obtained the Yamato, albeit in a broken state until he got his hands on it. He still had no idea how he repaired it – so perfectly that apparently it was used to open that massive Hell Gate in the middle of Fortuna.

“I see the glimmer of recognition – you comprehend my meaning,” Ricardo observed.

The alchemist’s lecturing attitude was starting to honestly piss Nero off. He wanted answers, so he held back from punching the daylights out of this stupid wiccan. “Just get to the point; I’m not here for a fucking college degree.”

“Well to make a short of it then,” Ricardo said conversationally “The Order’s little experiments with making their own demons didn’t go so well at first. A lot of failures and half-baked results, or so I hear. But then… well. Then they found the sword and what little of Vergil’s… essence, I suppose, was left. I like to think that their burgeoning ‘science’ department must’ve held a party when they did.”

Nero looked at the ground, trying to wrap his head around this information. “The… demons. The Angelos,” he muttered.

“Precisely,” Ricardo said with a nod. “But those were the late successes. The first trials with the essence they had and the new data were still not quite what they hoped. You see, they were missing so much; they had so little to work with. They had to supplement what was missing. Fill in the gaps, so to speak.”

He paused, staring at Nero closely. “And that’s where you fit in.”

Nero balked, almost taking a step backwards. “What did you say?” he barked. “That—that has nothing to do with me. I grew up in a—“

“Where you grew up in and with whom is irrelevant,” Ricardo interrupted him. “The point is what you actually _are_. As I understand they intended to use Dante himself as the core of that… Savior thing they unearthed. Required the blood of Sparda, or some such nonsense, typical cult fixation – there are so many simpler, more elegant solutions.”

Now Ricardo had started pacing and gesturing, like a teacher in a class, which irritated Nero even more. “I daresay they did try to create an alternative, or a backup plan… but I don’t think you passed muster.”

Nero felt all his blood drain to his feet. “You’re talking outta your ass,” he blurted.

“Am I? Then how do you explain the Savior activating the moment you were absorbed into it?” Ricardo countered sharply. “You have the blood of Sparda – after a fashion. Probably why you were discarded. I can’t imagine the Order was happy that they had to use so much human material to supplement what essence of Vergil they had but—“

“Shut up!” Nero exploded, the point that the alchemist was making finally coming home. Nero pointed his gun right at him again, stomping closer. “You’re talking a whole lotta bullshit! You’re saying—that Vergil—that I’m—“

Ricardo stared down the barrel entirely calmly. “Oh don’t delude yourself. It’s nothing so lofty as you being Vergil’s ‘son’ – any advanced alchemist can whip up new life, if they go about it right. Vergil isn’t your father, in any conceivable way. He’s your… _unwitting donor_ , if anything.”

He immediately leaned right out of the way as the Blue Rose roared with several shots fired in rapid succession. Speaking one thorny word he countered Nero, angrily swinging his arm forward to punch him. The Devil Bringer’s ghostly arm collided with a barrier, causing Nero to yelp in pain and surprise, feeling like he’d punched a bed of nails.

“Do control yourself” Ricardo sneered. “You wanted the truth, didn’t you? And now you balk, wishing to take it out on the messenger?”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Nero roared, assaulting him with renewed vigor.

The alchemist’s brows rose as he watched Nero punch the barrier yet again with no effect, just a pained grunt and then again, much harder. This time Ricardo winced and doubled over as the barrier shattered.

“You think your fancy-ass magic is going to stop me?!” Nero snarled.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Ricardo hissed.

He shouted a few lofty words and out of nowhere, Nero found himself surrounded by spectral bindings before seven large, pin-like structures made of what looked like solid flame manifested around and cannoned into him, piercing him from all sides, firmly pinning him to the ground. He yelled in impotent anger and pain. Every one of those giant needles burned, he could hear the sizzling of his flesh against them.

Ricardo was panting, but he looked on in triumph. “Your anger is your weakness, Nero, I am sorry to say. Thankfully I am… rather well versed at containing those with the power of demons.”

“Why don’t you… shut your goddamn mouth…!” Nero snarled back, struggling against the binds. “I’ve had enough of your shitty talk!”

“Yes, I quite understand that. I do wish you’d realize that I am not your enemy. You may detest me all you wish, but I only want to save her; I want to save my dear Tess from that bloody monster I’ve had to bow to. But as far as I’m concerned, all three of you – Dante, Vergil, you – you’re the same and you can all drop dead.”

“I’m _nothing_ like Vergil!” Nero roared. “I don’t give a shit if I was—if I was _made_ from him! I don’t give two fucks about your bull!”

His struggling grew and his power lashed out, a blue, bright aura surrounding him. Ricardo just narrowed his eyes at him. “I would like to believe that,” he confessed gently. “We are very alike, you and I. I believe that, you too, would do anything for the one you love. I am sincerely sorry to have caused you distress.”

Nero glared at him “Fuck you!”

Suddenly he looked up and away from Nero, towards the coven’s haven. Something had happened. There was a rising crescendo of screams from it; wild, ugly screams and the noise of fleeing feet.

“La Alta!! La Alta è morta! Lei è morta!! È MORTA!”

Ricardo then smiled, broadly and joyfully. “How wonderful. It seems that mother dearest has finally bought it,” he said calmly. “I must go, now. I must save Tess before the events here reach their inevitable crisis—“

Ricardo had been careless. He underestimated Nero. The young hybrid’s power flared, his eyes gleaming red as the ghostly silhouette of a demon rose out over his form, snarling with the same furious look as Nero. Nero flexed his demonic arm, fighting against two layers of binds; he succeeded in pulling it away from his body where it had been pinned, slowly raising it overhead, as if fighting against some immeasurable weight. The binds strained and crackled, Ricardo doubling over in pain again as he resisted. The Devil Bringer glowed like a small star and, with a drawn out scream of anger, Nero swung it, creating a giant ghostly fist that plowed headlong into Ricardo, barreling him down the street, right into the side of a building, leaving a sizeable hole in his wake.

Breathing deeply and growling like an animal, Nero slowly managed to rise to his feet and, with a final roar of triumph, stood straight, balling his fists and shook the bindings off him. The layers of spells broke one by one, soundless but feeling like the shattering of glass or the cracking of metal.

Unexpectedly, Nero stumbled sideways, devil trigger state fading. He gasped for air, feeling almost like he’d been drowning. He was suddenly so clearheaded that his head hurt. Quietly cursing himself – all this time and he still hadn’t mastered this deep indulgence into his demonic powers. And these wiccan spells were nothing to scoff at, fighting against them was extremely painful. He looked towards the hole that Ricardo had made in the building and stumbled over, panting.

He knew that the bastard wasn’t dead – anyone else would’ve been excused to assume that the alchemist would be a bloody paste among the rubble, but even as Nero approached, Ricardo was already climbing out of the hole, battered but clearly unhurt. He took one look at Nero... and fled.

“You fuckin’... chicken-shit...” Nero growled.

He took off after him, following him down the narrow alleys – now he had the scent, there was no way he was going to lose him. As he followed him, Nero suddenly sensed something else, all too familiar and yet foreign. A surge of energies nearby, one of them was Dante and the other...

 _Vergil!_ he thought frantically.

And ironically both he and Ricardo were heading straight for the hotspot. Good. Ahead of him, Ricardo’s running suddenly turned frantic.

“No, no, no, no!” Nero heard him mutter. “No! They should _not_ be here! Not now! I’m not—I’m not ready! Tess is right there—she’ll be right in the middle of it!”

They burst out into the open again, right into the scene of a fierce melee. Nero caught sight of Dante and the man in blue – Vergil, at long last! – engaged in the fiercest battle he’d ever seen. Lightning fast, hitting so hard that Nero could feel the blows all the way over there – and he could feel the demonic energies surging like tidal waves all over the battlefield. Alarmingly, he felt an indescribable urge to join the fray; something deep in him was yearning for the violence, the thrill of combat and the smell of spilled blood. He actually drew the Red Queen before he even noticed and was about to jump in... when everything seemed to stop.

A shot rang out.

Nero hadn’t even noticed her until she fell. The small-statured, red-headed woman he’d seen earlier, when he defeat Nicodemus was there. She had been caught in the middle of the brawl, engaging Dante on Vergil’s side, bizarrely enough. He didn’t think that either of Sparda’s sons would’ve tolerated the presence of a third party, a human, in a demonic duel.

Dante had shot her. And unexpectedly, he then froze.

Nero opened his mouth to warn him on sheer reflex but Vergil was so much quicker. He ran Dante through with Yamato in a decisive, vicious motion. Nero was already familiar with the cold, cruel efficiency of that blade.

**“BASTARDS! MURDERERS!!”**

Nero was knocked into a nearby wall by the impact of something large swatting him out of the way.

He did manage to catch Ricardo’s form contorting as he rushed forward, his form distorting violently, growing larger and larger until he was the size of a small truck and no longer human. He now looked like a hybrid between a wingless dragon and a knight in pale armor, with bestial legs and arms, and a long, ever-moving, barbed tail. His head looked human but when he turned Nero saw that instead of a face there was a blank, smooth and reflective mask.

Before Nero could do anything, he had leaped at the twins and proceeded to send them both flying with vicious slaps of his burly arm. To Nero’s amazement, he then dove at the fallen woman. The young hybrid stood transfixed in surprise as Ricardo’s bestial form picked up the motionless woman with incredible tenderness. He seemed to examine her and as his pale hands became stained with blood, he let loose a pained, mournful howl. For a moment there, Nero forgot his fury. He suddenly _sympathized_ with the goddamn alchemist. The woman evidently was the one he’d done all of this for.

He pulled himself together, running over to the site of the former battle just as Ricardo made a hasty retreat with the woman in his arms, bounding up and away, from rooftop to rooftop. Nero came upon Dante as the latter lowered his arm after fruitlessly pointing his gun at the fleeing Ricardo. He looked really angry.

“Nice going, you pissed the alchemist off,” Nero said flatly.

Dante pulled himself out of the huge dent he’d made in the building, favoring Nero with a glare that he’d never seen on the hunter’s face before. He looked furious. “I told you to take a hike, kid,” he said, but there was nothing of his usual calm in his tone.

“And I told you, too fucking bad,” Nero retorted fearlessly.

He turned around and scanned the area around them. Vergil was gone; there was no sign of him anywhere.

“Tch, he’s gone,” Nero muttered.

Dante grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around while emitting a low growl, bringing them face to face. Nero was about to swat him away violently when Dante’s expression stopped him cold. He never thought he’d see such a look on the old man’s face. So far Dante had only treated him to vaguely bored, somewhat disinterested, amused smirks and mirthful glances. Right now though, his face was fixed in a deep scowl, something between anger and resentment. It was such a striking expression that Nero immediately thought better of trying to challenge him.

“ _Forget_ about Vergil,” the crimson hunter snapped at him. “You even think about chasing after him and I’ll break your legs and nail them to a wall _myself_.”

He backed off and then walked past him. “Get after the alchemist. Make sure the girl he grabbed isn’t dead. She’s gotta know what’s going on.”

Nero folded his arms over his chest and scowled. He never was any good at taking _orders_. “Or what, old man? Sounds like your mess, you clean it up.”

Dante stopped dead and Nero saw his fist close with a creak of leather and shake in fury. He suddenly felt the immense pressure of Dante’s power leaning against him heavily, like a gigantic beast breathing down his neck, threatening to send him sprawling just by pressing against him. Ire flared in the young demon hunter’s soul but it was smothered by an overwhelming sense of fear. When Dante glanced over his shoulder, his eye was gleaming red and brimming with barely-restrained energy.

Nero was stunned by the coldness his voice carried, almost like Vergil’s tone, just… deadlier. “No... I might kill her for real if I do.”

Dante stormed off, his feet pounding the cobbles with nothing of the panther-like litheness that Nero remembered.

He hated to admit to it, but perhaps Dante had a point in catching Ricardo. He definitely sounded like he knew more about Vergil than he had admitted. Whatever sympathy Nero might’ve had for his situation, it had been snuffed out by what the alchemist had told him. Now he just wanted to grill the little shit about what else he knew. The information had rattled him. He wasn’t sure that facing Vergil right now, knowing what he did, was a wise course of action – and this reluctance bothered him. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t believe a word Ricardo said, but then again…

…so much of it made sense.

Had Dante known? Was that why he let him keep Yamato? With the parting shot of ‘keeping it in the family’?

That bastard.

He compromised. He’d find that alchemist, beat the holy daylights out of him until he spilled where Vergil was, beat Dante to him, and then beat Dante, for real this time.

Fortunately for his patience, the demon alchemist’s anxiety over the well-being of the woman had made him very careless. He’d left a trail a mile wide for Nero to follow, a series of shattered tile roofs sprayed with blood. By the look of things, he was heading towards the docks. Nero steeled himself and followed the path of destruction left behind. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dante finds more trouble, an old friend and tries to admit that he's fucked up.

Dante walked away from the site of his first of skirmish with Vergil in a loathsome tumult of emotion, a mire of ambivalence. Unable to deal with the contradicting feelings clashing inside of him, he sought only to bury them.

At least, he had learned something important: Vergil was unwell. He had felt it in his bones as they fought. Whatever had helped him defy death, it had not been good to him. Something had happened to him; he was a little slower, a little weaker than Dante remembered. He felt… different. Something hung over him like a bad omen. He seemed to be fighting back a constant state of pain. Because really, why else would he have tolerated Tess interfering and more or less _protecting_ him?

He winced as his choler rose.

Tess.

 _I…I shot her_ , he reminded himself.

He stopped, palmed his face and then suddenly swung his arm sideways, slamming his fist into the side of a building. The impact caused a large dent and cracks to run from his fist to the top of the short structure. The side of his hand ground into stone as he struggled to master himself again, gritting his teeth so hard he thought he might break them. He wasn’t lying to Nero when he said he might actually kill her if they met now, he was that conflicted. But _why_ was he so conflicted? She’d turned! Hadn’t she…? All cosied up with Vergil, helping screw him over. She'd betrayed their old friendship, had spun him a load of hogwash about how she would never-

_You don’t know that._

So spoke a damnable voice in the back of his mind. He wished that the streets of Amaro were teeming with demons, at least then he’d have something to kill, to get it out of his system. The only other recourse was screaming, and he’d die before that day came. But the truth stared him in the face: He had no idea what Tess’ role in all of this was. In spite of all the evidence… his gut still protested that she was not his enemy.

He blinked hard, trying to banish the image of her lying on the ground, enveloped in a pool of blood; the agonizing thought that he might have actually killed her.

Dante ran his hand over his face.

“I think this charade’s gone on long enough, don’t you think?” he said mirthfully. “Why don’t you come on out?”

At his prompting, his stalker stepped out into the wide cobblestone street as well. Nero looked annoyed, an angry little scowled stuck on his face.

“I lost ‘em,” he spat. “Damn alchemist is more slippery than a bar of soap.”

Dante snorted. “Is that so…?” he muttered under his breath.

He waited as Nero approached him, suddenly drawing Ivory and discharging a shot right into his face. As Nero stumbled backwards, his form melted, changing until there was a female demon crouching in his place. Dante regarded her glistening dark skin, solid white eyes and pale hair with mild interest, only paying special attention to her headdress and curves.

It was all an act of course. What he was really doing was appraising his opponent. He sensed her power – there was something familiar about it.

“About time,” he mused. “First real demon I’ve seen since I set foot in this dull little town. I was startin’ to feel like my dumb older brother didn’t make any effort.”

The demoness hissed at him, her long, whip-like tail swishing angrily. “How did you know?!” she whined.

He turned around to face her, resting his gun on his shoulder, smiling, but the mirth did not reach his eyes. “Ya play the same trick twice, you’re eventually gonna get caught,” he said with grim amusement. “Now why dontcha be a good little girl and tell me where Vergil is, before I hafta spank ya?”

The demoness jumped back and away from him, just to conjure a pair of thorny whips that gave off a foul miasma.

“You? Spank me?” she purred. “I don’t think so, darling.”

She attacked first, cracking both whips deftly at him, forcing him to dodge them with a lazy twirl, rather enjoying the frustrated little grunt she made.

“Now, now, little girl, I don’t really got time to play with ya,” he said lackadaisically. “Just give it up and run along before things get too messy.”

He pointed both guns at her and fired, but she’d vanished. She dove towards one of the buildings. Dante quirked an eyebrow as she plunged right into a window – no, not the window, rather she had dove right into the glass itself that rippled like water, leaving him alone in the open commercial street, with all its closed shops and glass windows.

A _lot_ of glass windows.

He nearly tipped his hat at her when one of the whips suddenly wrapped around his outstretched wrist from the side, her giddy cackling filling the air. He was yanked sideways, hissing quietly at the acidic pain blooming from where her whip made contact. Up close he could see the weapon, as black as her skin, covered in jagged thorns, and glistening with a foul, slippery ichor, the bitter smell offending his nose.

“But I _demand_ to be satisfied!” she said coyly, exiting from another window. “Or do you not know how to treat a lady?”

She swung him around, slamming him into the ground back first as he shot the end of her whip off his wrist and rolled back on his feet with ease.

“Sorry babe, I don’t do the whole dominatrix thing,” he commented, twirling his guns.

She retreated back into a window just as Dante shot at her. He pursed his lips, trying to anticipate the angle of her next attack. He heard the swish of the whip and turned suddenly, drawing Rebellion and slicing a multitude of whips apart, stymieing her surprise attack. The two whips splintered into many tendrils as Dante continued to sever each approaching limb with ease. She snarled in annoyance and created new ones, diving back into a new window.

“Are you getting’ shy, babe?” he asked. “Y’didn’t seem so shy when you were stringin’ me along in that little game of tag!”

This time he had her. He caught the whip sneaking at him from the sides and grabbed it in his hand. The contact ached with a searing sensation, but he held his grip and with a little extra oomph, gave it a mighty tug.

The demoness screeched as she was pulled out of the glass she was hiding in, shrieking as she went. Dante sheathed his sword and drew both guns, ducking under her furious swing of both whips and fired. Within seconds every glass window in the street had been shattered by a hail of rapidly fired bullets. The demoness howled in indignation, her plan of defense utterly foiled. In anger she snapped her whips, wrapping both around his neck from behind. Dante dry-heaved at the stench of acidic poison coating her weapons. The demoness cackled happily and pulled, yanking him off his feet once more and, with a mighty swing, sent him flying. He crashed back first through the wall of a building, piling debris behind him as he went.

He came to a stop with a small grunt, sprawled against a mass of debris coming to rest in the lobby of a civic building of some sort – it looked like it hadn’t seen any use for nearly a decade – chuckling as he lay on top of the scree.

She pursued him with a gleeful smile, stalking close to loom over him, her form shifting as it did to mimic Tess.

“Miss her already?” she cooed. “Here, one last look before the end—“

Dante responded with a barrage of charged shots that send her flying with screams of pain, her form withering back to her original.

“Ya know, I was having fun up until you did that,” he sighed and stood up. He holstered the guns and drew Rebellion. “I don’t take kindly to bein’ mocked like that.”

His form blurred as he rushed forward, bringing the blade down vertically. She evaded as the sword left a huge dent on the floor where she’d been standing. She emitted a venomous hiss but before she could counter, the sword came at her sideways, aimed at her mid-section with full force. She let an angry shriek, cracking her whips in front of her and using them to parry the blade. The whips grew solid enough to catch Rebellion’s edge, but the force behind it was such that it sent her stumbling backwards. She lunged at him, cracking new whips against the ground. Foul purulence spread from where the whips contacted the earth, sizzling black suppuration emanating wisps of caustic miasma.

It did nothing but inconvenience him. He merely dodged the spreading miasma and fired at her, catching her with several bullets that made her stumble before she riposted. Her whips flew true and slapped the Rebellion out of his hands, sending it twirling edge over edge into the air. Before the whips retreated, though, with a burst of demonic speed, Dante had snatched both whips in one hand and planted his feet firmly. His eyes flashed red briefly, and in a show of brute strength, he tugged hard, hauling her off her feet and flinging her into the air.

He let go of the whips, jumping to snatch Rebellion as it descended. Launching it at her like a spear as she dropped, then drew his guns, dispatching several shots charged with demonic energy right at the pommel. Thus powered, the blade hurtled like a rocket, impaling her through the back, bursting through her chest before they came crashing to the floor below, leaving her pinned like a moth in a bug collection. Her body tensed and she released deafening shrieks while her form grew vague, shifting between a multitude of different people before her body started to shrivel. It flared up in a burst of blue-purple flames, leaving Rebellion deeply stuck in the floor amid a small puddle of burned blood and settling ash.

Dante had landed next to it and with an annoyed sigh, dusting his hands as walked up to it. “A one-trick pony and not even enough power to make a Devil Arm,” he muttered and reached down to retrieve his blade.

The moment he drew the demonic sword from the floor he felt a light tremor, and heard the sound of grinding metal and stone. He sheathed his sword quickly just as the ground under his feet made a hollow crackling noise. He clicked his tongue and without warning the floor caved in, weakened by the mighty impact of his sword, collapsing right out from under him, sending him plummeting into the darkness below.

By now, falling from great heights had become such a second nature to Dante that he hardly noticed, turning gracefully to land smoothly on his feet, only forced to a knee from sheer momentum. It was quite a long drop after all.

A stone the size of his fist hit his head unexpectedly before he could even stand up.

“Huh...?" he blurted in surprise, palming the back of his head as he looked up to see that the stone was followed by a pile of broken concrete, chipped masonry and corroded steel rebars that cascaded down amid a small avalanche of dust, burying him under enough rubble to create a small mound.

Well now that stung a bit.

In the little space between stone floor and rubble, Dante coughed out some dust and sighed. He chuckled ruefully, planting his hands on the damp floor, pushing himself up and shrugging the pile of rubble off him with a series of loud grinding noises. He stood up, waving more dust away from his face and coughed, then dusted his clothes with brisk bats of his hands.

“Guess that’s karma,” he sighed before inspecting where he ended up.

In the weak light coming from the hole he’d fallen through, Dante could see a large vaulted hall stretching around him, about ten meters high. Looking up, he noticed the ceiling was built in cross-shaped vaults of carved stone that no doubt held the weight of the rock above it. A forest of pillars supported the ceiling, thick as tree trunks, spaced about ten meters apart each. The air was very damp and Dante could hear the trickle of water. It seemed that he’d ended up in an old water cistern that no longer saw any significant use.

With no immediate way up, Dante tapped his foot and listened to the echo. The walls behind him were too close and he heard no anomaly that would betray a way out and so he set off towards where the echo was fainter, hoping to find an exit somewhere ahead. He had pretty decent vision in the gloom of the cistern and after only a few paces into his trek he noticed something odd in the far end of the cistern which had just come into view. Quirking his eyebrow quizzically, he veered towards it.

When he finally came before it, he grinned. He was facing the massive statue of a beast, about five meters in height and almost twice as long, with the bulky build of a male lion, a thick, richly carved mane and three pairs of elegantly curved horns growing out of the swathes of stone-wrought fur. Its legs were covered in reptilian scales and its long, powerful-looking tail seemed to suit a dragon better than a large cat, topped with a large tuft of perfectly carved fur.

The artist had captured the beast in a strange pose, poised along the corner with its flank against the stones, trying to circle away from an opponent that had driven it into the corner. Its left forepaw had been raised from the floor, massive claws pushed out and ready to rend. The rest of its body was rendered in tension, the muscles bunched and captured in their moment of impatient tremble. The head was dipped, jaws half open in a silent snarl and the snout wrinkled in fury. The pale eye of the cat glared from the delicately carved scowl, the other shut by a large scar captured in stone.

Dante shook his head, laughing wryly as he folded his arms mirthfully. No wonder they couldn’t find him.

“Well now you look like a big ol’ coot I used to know,” he said, inspecting the statue more closely.

Unexpectedly there was a slight groan of stone and a tiny tremor shook the cistern. Dust and particles precipitated from the statue, as if the creature had shuddered.

It just elicited a bigger smile from Dante. “Good to know you’ve still got some kick!”

Finally his gaze was drawn to something on the statue’s front paw, pressed to the ground. What looked like a metal wedge or sword had been plunged deep into the stone. It was dark-coloured, made apparently of wrought iron with a triangular hand-guard and covered with strange runes circling around it in a spiralling motion. It had been stabbed deeply into the paw, passing through where tendons bone and muscle would’ve been on a living creature. The stone had cracked, revealing nauseating, black sheen.

Dante reached out and grabbed the hilt. The statue shuddered again, more visibly. With a decisive motion, he pulled the wedge out of the statue’s paw. He looked at the statue expectantly for a moment and then frowned in disappointment when nothing happened. He looked at the sword then back at the statue and then tossed the object over his shoulder.

“Might be too late for ya, huh?” he muttered.

The statue lay motionless for another moment but then cracks started to shoot across its surface with reverberating crepitation. Dante stepped back to watch as the statue shuddered violently, rock chipping off and crashing to the floor. Shudder turned to fully-fledged motion as the being inside the rock freed its limbs. The tail broke its stone shell and swished nervously. The raised paw slammed down angrily. The hind legs ground free as rock sloughed off and it raised its head with the crackle of breaking rock. The grunts of a big cat filled the cistern. Finally free of its stone prison, the beast threw its head back and let loose a majestic, earth-shaking roar and shook its sandy-gold coat and rich chestnut mane clean. It blinked and its single eye gleamed golden amber.

With the roar fizzling into a weak groan, the beast lowered its head again, dazed. It peered at Dante before it stumbled to the side with a throaty cough. Its flank hit the wall beside it with a hollow sound and it dissolved into sand.

The next thing he knew, Dante was faced with a lanky, tall man in his late forties with tanned skin and scruffy grey hair, trying to hold himself upright by bracing against the wall.

Dante recognized him instantly and laughed, pleased that the old geezer was indeed still alive. “So _that’s_ where you’ve been, Furball!”

“Har-de-har,” came a mirthless reply. Dante had missed his vaguely British brogue. “I’d love to see _you_ stuck in a rock for years, you little smartass. A decade’s done bugger-all for your maturity.”

Dante grinned widely at Roy’s indignation even in the face of exhaustion. He then shook his head at his condition; his human form looked worn since he’d last seen the familiar, his plain trousers and pale shirt looked baggy on him. Apparently being trapped in stone is a daunting thing even for the shape-shifting, sand-commanding desert djinn known as Abraxas. Roy’s human form was never on the big side but Dante noticed that he’d lost a lot of weight in an unhealthy way and that his skin was dry and pockmarked. He looked older too, which was alarming since Dante was pretty sure that djinn _don’t_ really age. His eye had never healed since the demon attack that claimed it.

“Damn am I glad to see you, boy,” the familiar wheezed, standing straighter.

“Nice to see you too, ya crazy old man. But still missing an eye _and_ trapped in stone for five years? You’re losing your touch. What happened to you?”

Roy still leaned his back against the wall and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Bloody paranoid wiccans, that’s what,” he snarled. “Ambushed me, forced me into a corner with spells and then got me with a binding seal. I’d flood this blasted little dung-hole of a town in sand if I could be bothered. That Regina… silly wreck thought I was out to get her. Bloody nonsense!”

He then halted his tirade to stand straight at last, straightening his clothes. He studied Dante up and down. “But look at you,” he scoffed fondly. “The brat’s grown into a man! Or as much of a man as _you’ll_ ever be, you hellion.” He thumped Dante’s shoulder amicably. “Now… where’s my supposed mistress? If she hasn’t come looking for me in five years, she either doesn’t need her old cat anymore… or are you here at her behest?”

Dante winced. Seeing Roy had genuinely delighted him and pained him at the same time. He knew this was coming. Roy had no idea of what was going on. He abandoned his forced mirth.

“Roy… look… You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” he asked carefully.

Roy’s grey eye fixed on him with a sharp, scrutinizing look. “No. I’ve felt a shift in the city for the last year or so but that’s all. Something _is_ happening, then.” Some twitch on Dante’s face must’ve given something away. “And you think Tess is involved. Talk to me,” he said sharply.

Gone was the grumpy old man; Dante was now talking with a millennia-old guardian and experienced warrior. He chose his next words carefully. Hiding anything from Roy was probably not a very good idea, as much as Dante disliked the fact.

“Roy, my… brother is in Amaro. He’s bad news. He’s after something, I don’t know what. Far as I can tell he’s done something to send the local coven into a fit.” Famously, he hesitated. “And I think that Tess is working with him.”

Roy flinched, hard, and stared at Dante dumbly. “If this is your idea of some ridiculous joke—“

“It’s not,” Dante snapped. “I got a photo of her working with Vergil that got me to Amaro. This very day I’ve seen her twice and both times she ran away from me.”

Roy looked away, dumbfounded, trying to make sense of things. “Something must be going on. What did you say about the coven? Have they been—“

Dante folded his arms over his chest. “She’s been on the run from the coven for the last year and they didn’t know what she was doing. That Regina lady—“

“I wouldn’t trust that snake as far as I could throw her!” Roy blurted. “Whatever _she_ told you, it’s a pile of lies. She’s utterly paranoid about her position. She’s always considered Tess a threat. By lineage, Tess could usurp her as descendant of the coven’s founder – if she bothered.”

“It’s not just her,” Dante countered angrily. “Roy, Tess has been on the run from the coven for the last year and they didn’t know what she was doing. I caught her fleeing the coven just few minutes ago. She admitted that she killed Regina—“

“Regina’s dead?” Roy croaked. “Tess killed her? That’s absurd! Why would she—no. No, you must be mistaken.”

Dante glared at him. “Spare me the denial, old man, unless you’re in on this too.”

Roy ran his hand through his hair nervously. “You said she fled the coven—what was going on, did she tell you anything?”

Dante’s lips thinned as he struggled to compromise between his anger and his desire to still believe in her. Otherwise he might’ve said a bunch of things that he would’ve regretted. He shook his head. “She wouldn’t talk to me, old man. Kept mumbling about how she couldn’t tell me. She wanted me to clear out of town. I saw her hand Vergil something that she’d stolen – just up and obeyed his order like a trained puppy.” He braced himself for the fallout, already regretting what he was about to say. “Vergil and me… She… got mixed up in out battle to protect him and… and I shot ‘er.”

Roy looked as though he’d been shot himself, his expression switching from shock to anger in a short moment. “WHAT?!” blustered in exasperated disbelief. “You shot —have you gone _insane_?!” as he advanced towards him menacingly.

Dante stood his ground. He was supremely annoyed now that even fifteen years later he simply couldn’t sense Roy’s power, at all. Roy wasn’t like other non-human entities and topped with an undeniable martial expertise when the old man got going, it always made Dante cautious around the familiar.

Roy lunged at him, out of his mind with fury.

Dante’s line of sight filled with swirling sand and Abraxas the djinn burst from it, ramming him before he could react. Dante grunted softly as Abraxas’ massive paw slammed into his chest and pinned him to the floor like a mouse. His claws were pushed out, scraping the floor on either side of Dante’s head.

Abraxas’ broad muzzle, trembling with a constant snarl, was inches away from Dante’s face. “Give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t gut you like a fish!” he snarled. “You’ve got some nerve, hurting her and then telling me to my face so baldly!”

Dante sighed at this conundrum. He felt his demonic side responding to this situation, wanting to fight the djinn until they were both a bloody mess and one emerged the victor. The pressure in the back of his mind of his demonic heritage wanting to spill forth and fight back was overwhelming… but Dante wouldn’t give in this time. It had already cost him today. No more. Besides, Roy – or rather, Abraxas – was an utter mystery to him. He had never seen the djinn display his full might before and even with exhaustion wearing him down, Dante would never be able to tell what to expect from him.

All he knew was that Abraxas was holding back. He was certainly angry, but he was having _doubts_ despite his paternal feelings for Tess. The last thing they both needed was a big fight.

He forced a wry chuckle.

“Look fuzzball, no overgrown pussy-cat’s ever gonna get me. My day’s sucked enough as it is and you don’t wanna piss me off,” he said. “I’m starting to doubt what’s really going on, myself.”

Abraxas’ nostrils flared as he snorted. “Oh really? Do tell,” he snapped.  

“I don’t know what’s really going on, or what my brother is doing, but I think he might’ve done something to her,” Dante groused. “I don’t know if she’s working with him willingly or not but she’s terrified of him. She…sounded more scared for me than herself. I shot her because I lost my head in that fight and that’s… that’s what Vergil does. I need to fix this, old man.”

He paused.

“She ain’t dead. After I shot ‘er, this demon knight thing crashed the party and snatched her off. You might know him better than I do: Some alchemist named Ricardo, who actually brought me here.”

Abraxas started and the pressure on Dante’s chest relaxed. “Ricardo!? He’s involved? And he’s a demon, you say?” he blurted. Then he bared his massive fangs. “So. That’s how low he’ll stoop, bloody bastard,” he growled.

Finally the pressure on Dante’s chest vanished entirely and Abraxas pulled his paw back.

“For your sake, I hope you’re right,” the djinn muttered.

Dante just nodded grimly. He mostly had to convince himself that he really hadn’t just killed her. Abraxas whipped around with an irritated snort. By the time Dante got to his feet, he saw Roy stand there, back turned, with his head lowered and his hands on his waist. He seemed devastated and his shoulders were quaking faintly. Dante didn’t have the heart to mock him; Roy had practically raised Tess and despite his gruff manner, he loved the witch like a child.  

“I’m coming with you,” he said sharply. “I understand that your matters with your brother are personal, but until Tess is safe, I don’t care what your sentiments are.”

Dante grimaced. He hated that so many people were getting involved in this personal vendetta he and his brother had. He would’ve liked to tell Roy to sod off, but… Tess’ limp body on the ground in a pool of blood tempered his intense desire for privacy. Vergil had involved her anyway. She deserved better.

“Fine, old man,” he sighed. “I’ve no clue what Vergil’s up to. He fled after I shot Tess so I have no idea where he is.”

Roy turned around, retrieving a pair of elegant shaded glasses from his shirt pocket and donning them, to hide his scarred eye. “In that case,” he said calmly “We’ll just have to work with what we _do_ know. You said that Tess gave him something after she fled from the coven. Was Regina was killed _inside_ the coven grounds?”  

Dante blinked. He wanted to get out and find Vergil, not stand around and answer questions but… in the past, Roy had never given him a piece of advice that didn’t turn out to be good. He shrugged. “I think so, why?”

“Regina would never directly engage anyone unless something very important was at stake,” Roy said coolly. “Tell me what happened before you shot Tess. Everything.”

Dante hesitated but then told him, in brief, what had passed and Roy listened without interruptions. Finally his brows bowed up.

“Wait—you said she gave Vergil a book. Describe it.” 

Dante shrugged again. “It looked old.”

“That’s it!? Oh come on, you can do better!” Roy barked.

Dante grimaced. “Black cover. Metal on the binding.”

Roy gestured a size. “About this big?” 

“Yeah, what is it?”

Roy’s face grew serious and grave. “It can only be the Tome of Rites, the coven’s most closely guarded secret. It’s an abominably dangerous book, Dante. It’s said to contain secrets that wiccans can use to gain great power… and it was written by demons. I always suspected that Regina had succumbed to its thrall, like so many others. If Vergil is after something contained in the book, this explains everything. Regina would’ve never allowed Tess to walk away with it.”

“Damn,” Dante blurted. “Vergil’s up to his old tricks. But this isn’t like him. If he’s messing with wiccan stuff, then there’s no telling what he’s up to. I don’t even know… how he’s alive.”

Roy’s brows furrowed at that mutter but he said nothing.

Dante palmed his forehead. “Wait. There’s something else. Vergil’s been opening small Hell Gates all over the city. It’s like a network.”

Roy looked quite alarmed. “That would explain what I’ve felt all this time. They must be dormant, though. But what could he need them for? _He_ can’t use the Tome to gain power; its secrets have worth only to wiccans. Unless…”

Dante hissed. It dawned on him. Vergil’s state, his lesser power, the evident corruption, the sudden fit. “Unless he wants to make Tess do something for him. Like restore him.”

Roy’s eye widened. “That would be it. You must remember Tess is rather unique among wiccans. She can freely conjoin wiccan powers to demonic ones. There’s no rejection.”

Dante set his jaw. “She’s gonna be in danger if she does it, won’t she?”

“Undoubtedly,” Roy growled. “We’ve got to find either of them before Vergil can set his plan in motion. Though I do wonder… where on earth did he hear of the Tome? Nevertheless, come. I know of a way out of the cistern.”

They set off in a hurry through the vaulted cistern, their footsteps echoing in the huge space.

“I worry about Tess’ safety,” Roy confessed, “if you say that Ricardo is involved, the pitiable bastard is a somewhat brilliant alchemist, but, unbalanced... He always had something of a fixation with Tess, a rather unwholesome one at that. It frightened her.”

“Great, her crazy ex has her,” Dante groused. _At least if the kid finds them I can be sure he’s going to go to town on that bastard._

“So how do we find ‘em?” Dante muttered.

“We have to go back to the coven,” Roy said.

They had now reached a stone stairway carved into the bedrock that led up a steep passage towards the surface. A faint light came from the other end of it.

“The coven? What’s the point?”

“You mentioned a network of Gates,” Roy muttered. “If I understand this situation correctly, they will likely serve to power a larger one. Theoretically, that’s where Vergil will want to be. I know from the coven archives that a Gate had opened in Amaro in the past, I just don’t know where. If anyone knew, it would have been Regina. Undoubtedly she'll have kept detailed notes... that adder always did like to micromanage everything.”

“After what’s gone down, I don’t think they’ll welcome us with open arms,” Dante scoffed.

“Bollocks to them!” Roy snapped. “I’m done being patient with the lot of them. We’re going to get in even if I have to level the damn place.”

Dante burst out laughing. “I’ve missed your eloquence, old man!”

Roy glared at him over his shoulder irritably. “Oh fuck off.”

Dante chuckled. At the end of the stairwell, there was a rusting yet ornate metal door blocking the way into the cistern. Roy smashed it with an angry kick, the pair grateful to step back into the daylight at last.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the most violent shut-down of all time might be included.

When the bullet roared through her, Tess had felt nothing but a burning flash. The impact with the ground had hurt more. That’s all she would ever remember of the incident before darkness filled her vision and her senses shut down: A hot sting, the hard embrace of the cobblestones, the endless sky overhead… and his face. The surprise and the regret. It was awful.

She resurfaced from unconsciousness gradually, first to the sensation of cold all along her back and then to harsh light coming from above, stinging through her eyelids. Then the smell of disinfectants and dry blood. A dull, throbbing ache all over her. Consciousness came and went, small vignettes of wakefulness pulled out of the sticky mire of oblivion. She squeezed her eyes shut to block the light, unwilling to open them yet, her neck throbbing faintly.

When she finally peeled her eyes open, someone stood over her. She was dazed and her sight unfocused but she was certain. Yes… a woman. Terror grabbed her. She knew her. The woman from her earlier visions, the wraith in the pale robes that terrorized her when she picked up the book. Who showed her how to open the way to the passage.

Tess gasped and blinked. The wraith was gone; maybe she was never even there. Tess was left staring up at a large skylight, partly dimmed by layers of grime on the exterior. She remembered being shot and falling. She ought to be dead, really. Dante’s guns were designed to fell demons; a mere human stood no chance against them. How had she survived?

She felt too weak to sit up but turned her head gently to look around. She recognized the place. She lay on a medical table and the ground was littered with medical instruments and clumps of soiled, bloody gauze. The room was large and deathly quiet, part of an old hotel. Once it had been a resort of choice for the rich, but with the passing of the golden years, had fallen into obscurity and now lay empty. It had been famous for its skylight dining hall where she now lay. The room still maintained its elegant papered walls, stained by moisture and peeling from lack of maintenance. The gilded plaster mouldings along the walls had chipped and faded.

A foul mix of mildew, preservatives, medicines and acrid concoctions of alchemical nature filled the space. She saw them arranged on benches and bookcases lining the walls beside her. Light fixtures were arranged haphazardly around the, table providing additional light.

She knew this place.

Ricardo had once brought her here, his ‘secret lab’ as he called it, where he could work away from his mother’s scrutiny. She hadn’t stayed long here; Ricardo’s research into distilling power had disturbed her. She had warned him repeatedly that it was a terrible idea, this endeavour to master the art of reducing the power of demons, the power of wiccans, even the power of the restless dead, to innocuous liquids and tinctures. He never listened. He carried on, producing useful therapeutic creations palatable to humans on the side.

She had no doubt now about who had brought her back from the brink. But how had he brought her here from the middle of that chaos? What had happened with Vergil and Dante’s clash?

“Are you awake, my dear?”

Ricardo’s voice called her to attention. She grunted vaguely, feeling her throat sticky and dry.

“Water—yes, you’re right. One moment!”

Her fingers twitched as she regained control of her faculties and forced herself to focus. Her uncooperative body was roused to slothful action. Ricardo, looking exhausted and rather filthy, bent over her and with a gentle hand helped her up, bringing a glass to her lips. Cool water trickled down her throat.

“There. That’s better. You lost so much blood, I was afraid I was too late,” he chattered as though they were just sitting and having breakfast. “My research into refinement of staple alchemical concoctions of healing – _stelle della vita;_ you know them, so unstable, they deteriorate fast and their potency is diminished on mortals. But my distillation process creates a liquid that is far more palatable and can be applied directly to wounds without concern. You recovered beautifully and—“

“Ricardo, stop,” Tess snapped. “This… this doesn’t change _anything_. How did you get me away from the fight?”

He fumbled his words. “I, er…” 

She pushed him away and sat up properly, dizzy but all too aware of what was happening now. She could see it on him at last. Whatever he did to hide it earlier had started to fail. The taint was bleeding into his aura. Even as she watched the ‘cracks’ in his pale aura were growing, veins of sick blackness spreading through it. They stared at each other and Tess could see on his face the inward struggle between truth and lies, fear and frustration.

“You’ve done to yourself what you did to Nicodemus and Albrecht,” she said coldly.

Ricardo turned away from the accusation in her eyes. He fidgeted with the tray of medical supplies nearby.

“No, not the same,” he mumbled, sounding offended. “What I gave the coven attack dogs was the merest empowerment, a transplant. Myself… myself I took care with. Great care. I have achieved true transubstantiation, true… true convergence!”

Tess shuddered as he continued. “And all of it – all of it for you, my dearest. You see, I know everything. I figured it out. Vergil is weak; he suffers the fruit of his arrogance and his folly. He was dead and she brought him back. He needed tending – you can’t imagine how he loathed it,” he cackled. “Then… he wanted freedom. But it comes at a price. The Tome of Rites has the answers. Hecate’s Girdle, of course, it is the only thing that would hold you. How he knows of it and who taught him to use it – and of course I had to have the means to fight of you when the time came—“

“Why did you bring Dante here?” she snapped.

Ricardo laughed cruelly. “Why else? To my understanding, the sons of Sparda cannot meet without tearing at each other like rabid dogs. Exactly as demons will do, you know. Vergil required a diversion and I brought him it.”

Tess shook her head at him, her expression of disbelief and abject disgust deepening with every word he said. “Ricardo, you’ve gone too far,” she said sharply. “I never asked you to do anything for me. I made it _very clear_ to you that nothing has changed. You can delude yourself all you want but it’s always been clear that your regard for me largely has to do with my Deep Sight and my heritage – don’t deny it, all those ‘little tests’ and ‘innocent questions’. Do you seriously think I’m that dense?!”

He whipped around and dropped to his knees beside the tables, his face wrinkled with confusion and drenched in perspiration. He was twitching quite visibly and grabbed her hand in both of his frantically. She winced at the contact, the demonic taint in him growing and pressing against her senses heavily. Whatever his bragging of achievement, it was evident to her that the end result was the same: He was turning into a full demon, just gradually.

“Nothing?!” he exploded. “But I’ve done _everything_ right! I’ve rescued you, again and again! I’ve aided you in this folly of Vergil’s! I’ve watched over you! I’ve even sacrificed the Tome to get you away from him! Oh the Tome, the Tome—do you have any idea how much it hurts to not have it before me?!” Ricardo’s cackle chilled her blood. “Mother tried to decipher its secrets, you know. She brought it to me. But she snatched it away from me when she realized that I was more worthy of it.”

Tess felt her skin crawl. “That’s why you resented her so much.”

“On top of everything else, yes. I’m ever so grateful that you bumped her off, I do hope it was infinitely painful,” he said casually. “But it’s of no matter. Vergil can have the book, for all the good it will do him.”

He reached up to touch the choker fastened around Tess’ neck, only for her to recoil and slap his hand away. “He needs you but I can fix this, I can—“

“No!” she shouted, feeling indignation giving energy to her heavy limbs at last. “You can’t and you won’t! I was _never yours_ to fix or protect or rescue!” she carried on, shoving him away from her. “You’re _exactly_ like Regina—you think I don’t know why you’re so fixated on me?! You’ve gone and made yourself into a monster because you want power, it has nothing to do with me! Get it through your head, Ricardo, nothing will ever change! Now get out of my way, I need to—“

She swung her legs over the side of the table to stand up. Ricardo grunted in frustration and the next thing she knew, Tess was fighting off his hands closing around her neck.

“No, no, no, no, NO!” he muttered frantically. “It’s all wrong, wrong, _wrong!_ You should be grateful! You should _want_ my help! I have all the answers!”

Tess choked a curse and lashed out at him, scratching at his face. His glasses flew off and he yelped at her nails hitting his eye, but he didn’t let go of her. She punched him as hard as she could manage but again it produced little effect. She was tempted to resort to fire, like with Regina – but the thought made her feel sick. Besides, he was so close to her that she would only succeed in burning herself as well.

“Why would you be content to suffer this indignity at the hands of that wretched half-breed?! Is it because of the demon hunter?! Is that where your loyalties truly lie?” he muttered frenziedly. “But yes, that is why you would not be mine then, is it? Well now you have no choice my dear. If not me then, nobody—“

She couldn’t speak for want of air. Her vision was clouding yet again and still she attempted to fight him off but every strike she landed was met with impossible endurance – since when had Ricardo—sickly, anaemic Ricardo been able to weather even her blows? His embrace of demonic powers ran deep. Fire, she must use fire, even if the cost was severe injury to herself. Before she ran out of air and gave in to the dark wings creeping in at the edges of her vision.

Her conundrum was resolved by a third party, however. A shot rang out and Tess saw red spurt out of the side of Ricardo’s head as the alchemist was knocked sideways. He cursed heavily in Italian as Tess gasped in for air, rolling off the medical bed onto the floor with a thud, but was on her feet almost immediately. Ricardo had stumbled backwards onto one of the shelf units that held vials and jaws, knocking many of them to the floor, pressing his hand to his head while snarling angrily.

“You know, Ricky,” Nero said as he walked into the room with his gun directed at Ricardo. “For someone waxing poetic about making sacrifices for your loved one, you sure don’t seem like a really loving person.”

Tess breathed a sigh of relief. She should’ve sensed him coming in but her exhaustion must be messing with her head. She could sense him clearly now. She was glad to see him, rather than Dante. It made things much less complicated.

Ricardo recovered from the shot to the head enough to glare at Nero with eyes that were starting to gleam faintly white. “You! You… tacky little experiment!” he seethed. “You’ve no place to be here!”

“I dunno, I’d say it looks like this is _exactly_ where I need to be to kick your ass!” Nero smirked.

“Is it really, you wretch?!” Ricardo snapped. “I honestly did believe that of all people, you’d understand! You had this power thrust upon you; why _not_ use it to protect those you love? But you see her there?! There is utterly no gratitude! It is all falsehood!”

“You’ve always been deluding yourself, Ricardo,” Tess snapped as she backed away from the medical table. “I warned you repeatedly. If you have to blame anybody, blame yourself for your inability to accept that _I am not yours_!”

“And then whose are you, dearest?! Unless you prefer to belong to that half-living abomination who orders you about and whom you have no choice but to obey!” Ricardo screamed back. “Who shackled you! The Girdle is so plainly to be seen on your neck! He has done naught but terrorize you because he can’t stand the idea that you know what he is under the veneer of control!? Who intends to use you like a tool and then discard you to the dogs! I can save you!”

“It’s too late for that,” she said coldly.

Ricardo’s expression twitched viciously, his face being pulled by the feral expression starting to overtake his features as he bared his teeth and just about snarled before hurling himself towards her. His form swelled and distorted, shifting and changing with the crackle of bone and grinding of flesh. Tess gasped and teleported to the side, letting Ricardo’s demonic form crash unsuccessfully into the wall behind where she had stood. The beast was stunned momentarily, just to turn, crunching the floor underfoot and stare both Tess and Nero down with his blank visage.

“Too late?! _Too late?!_ Yes, perhaps. ‘Tis done, then, and thus dies my love, dearest. If I cannot have you, no one will!” he bellowed. “And you! You’re of that wretch’s essence! I’ll tear you all asunder!!”  

“Will ya put a cork in it already?” Nero barked, opening fire on him again.

Tess watched as the bullets pinged off Ricardo’s hide almost harmlessly, leaving mere dints into his armour. Ricardo simply lunged at Nero, forcing the young demon hunter to counter using the Devil Arm to deliver a powerful punch. Ricardo took it face, getting lurched backwards; at the same time, Nero gasped while being knocked off his feet. Tess winced; she had sensed the surge of power from his arm but the moment it made contact with Ricardo, she’d sensed a second surging, from _Ricardo_ , not Nero.

As if the power had been bounced back.

Nero’s back hit the ground and he slid backwards, gasping for the air that was knocked right out of him. Ricardo shook his head and seized a large bookshelf, heavy with vials, books and equipment, hurling it straight at Nero.

“No!” Tess blurted, flicking her hand instinctively at the missile.

A blast of fire knocked it sideways, shattering it and showering Nero with a few harmless splinters as he jumped back up to re-join the fray. Neither of them failed to notice that what little damage Nero’s shots and the punch had done to Ricardo were already fading – the dints were erasing themselves before their very eyes. Tess repeated her action, this time using fire to attack Ricardo directly, igniting blasts right on him. Ricardo was flung sideways but Tess felt a strange reverberation of power and, with a gasp, immediately created a heavy-handed protective circle around her.

She was still knocked off her feet by the surge of power that danced around her, manifesting into a series of fiery blasts not unlike her own. The circle protected her from most of the damage but she felt the edges of her coat and the tips of her hair singing and the searing heat on her skin.

Ricardo reared onto his feet and held his arms out wide, laughing in cruel triumph. “Oh dear! It would seem that my little experiment has been a complete and utter success!” he cackled. “I did tell you, Tess. Perfect convergence! Wiccan and demon powers completely at my command! I’m a master alchemist, after all! Creating a tactic that gives me an undisputed edge over both?! Child’s play! All you throw at me, I can return tenfold!”

Nero pulled himself up with a wry face. “What is it with you witches and warlocks and cheatin’ a good fight?!” he grunted.

He then had to dodge to the side to avoid a swipe by Ricardo’s arm, carrying a bright, molten energy that Nero decided would probably be best not to come into contact with. Ricardo’s arm slammed into the floor, breaking up the floor and leaving a crater in its wake. The substance in his hand burned angrily. He looked out of control but all the while he chuckled in childish delight. Tess could see the way this transformation was affecting him; what little of his ordinary aura was left was being rapidly consumed by this change he had brought upon himself.

She hissed and started to examine him as closely as possible. Yes, she could see the traces of the woven power he’d used on himself, aside from the demonic powers he had imbibed.

Nero’s barrage of charged shots didn’t do much either, as the young man was struck down by a similar hail of power that Ricardo returned to him. Their options were limited. Tess made an attempt to stop Ricardo with a heavy-handed entrapment spell, hissing out the sharp words rapidly. It seemed to hold for a whole two seconds before Ricardo shook it free by bellowing a pebbly phrase, turning it back onto her, he lunged at her with a swipe of his hand, forcing her to teleport away.

“Now, now, dearest! I am wise to these little tricks of yours! I know them as well as you do!” he crooned.

“Will you just shut up?” Nero grumbled.

He used the Devil Bringer to grab one of the massive double bookcases and flung it right at Ricardo. It slammed into him, knocking him away and onto his back with a loud thud. It seemingly dazed him as he shouted three icy words, prompting Tess to teleport right at Nero and immediately burn a circle around them both.

“Don’t move!” Tess commanded him and braced herself.

The threads of power from Ricardo’s incantation tightened as a dozen spectral lances manifested around them, all of them hurtling towards Nero. The circle she created flared with bright power, repelling them all with a deafening din like the crashing impact of metal on metal. Tess winced at the sharp feedback and then stumbled backwards from the recoil, prompting Nero to catch her by the arm before she went down.

“Your ex is crazy,” Nero said dryly. “How’s he doing that?”

“Bastard,” Tess growled fiercely, glaring at Ricardo who was just getting back up. “He’s actually done it, a demon who can still invoke the powers of the wiccans. But it’s so unstable—“

Ricardo lumbered towards them, forcing them to split up. He flicked his arm aside causing a gooey, sticky but glowing substance to manifest in his hand and stretch out, solidifying into a lance. The weapon glowed, giving off a terrible amount of heat, rivulets of the hot, sticky material dripping onto the floor with angry hisses.

“I understand that if Vergil were to die while you wear the Girdle, you would be struck dead yourself, dearest,” he purred. “Pity it does not work the other way.”

“Ricardo, you never did know when to shut your trap,” Tess muttered.

Ricardo brandished the lance, lunging at Nero who just barely managed to evade the blow. The impact of the lance with the wall erupted with an angry sizzle and ugly splatter. Nero yelped in pain as a blob of the material flung away from the blackened, smoking impact area and nailed him in the back. Tess caused a small explosion on the ceiling, near a large metal chandelier. It plummeted onto Ricardo, sending him sprawling and affording Nero the opportunity to regroup.

“You’ll soon run out of things to throw at me!” Ricardo barked.

“Any suggestions would be nice, witch,” Nero snapped at Tess.

Tess caught her lower lip with her teeth, thinking frantically. “There’s something I could try, but I need time. Can you keep him off me? You’ll need to hit him _very_ hard if it works because it won’t be permanent.”

Nero fixed her with his gaze, lips slightly pursed as he evidently tried to make up his mind. He had no reasons to really trust her; he probably didn’t even remember that after Vergil attacked him she removed every trace of the restraining spell Vergil had told her to use on him.

But Nero then nodded sharply. “How much time do you need?”

She returned the gesture. “About three minutes, maybe four—look out!”

Ricardo had shaken the chandelier off him and formed a new lance of the molten fire. He swung around and hurled it at them, forcing them to split apart again. Nero drew his gun and fired repeatedly at Ricardo’s face, the bullets pinging hard against the smooth, curved surface of the featureless mask. The shots left dints and Ricardo recoiled with an irritated growl, it didn’t seem to overwhelmingly hurt him.

“C’mon, giving up on me now?” Nero taunted, holstering his gun to draw his sword. “Come and get some!”

Ricardo lunged at him with a new lance and the two weapons collided hard in a shower of sparks and liquid spatter. Globs of material dripped off Ricardo’s lance and the Red Queen made an angry hiss upon contact with the thing. Ricardo snarled, bearing down hard upon Nero who held onto the Red Queen with his Devil Bringer, put all the strength he could manage, as Tess could sense, some of his power behind it to resist being squashed and protect his blade from damage.

She backpedalled, finding the most open space in the ruined hall, pushing aside a medical cart and a workbench, concentrating on her trap. She began working, placing her hand on the floor. Several thin flames shot out from where she touched and ran across the floor, burning and charring lines and symbols onto the old tiles until a large enough circle appeared. It had smaller circles within and without, some spreading from its own circumference, various runes and signs between and around them and a bigger symbol in the middle.

She bit her lips again, not entirely confident with her work as she was forced to almost entirely make this up as she went, taking into consideration what she could see and sense of Ricardo’s power. He must have no opportunity to fight her attempt.

 _I only have one shot at this,_ she thought. _The demonic powers he gave himself and his own wiccan power are in a very delicate state of balance right now. If I can force either side out of balance for even a little bit it might be enough to get him._

She finally stood straight and backed up from the circles, charging a sphere of flame which she hurled at Ricardo’s back, getting his attention. The reflected flame was dispersed with a well-timed flick of her hand.

“Enough of this Ricardo!” she shouted. “Come to me then, let’s settle this, now!”

Her body was tense from concentration as she watched and waited for his attack to spring her trap. Nero saw her and backed away from Ricardo, getting ready for the right moment. Tess staring Ricardo down, her defiant expression a blatant provocation to the enraged hulk, who charged for her with another lance, straight into the circle. She waited for the right moment, just as his arm came down, the tip of the lance a moment’s breadth from striking her. The lance slammed into the floor, dispersing the thin wisp of smoke left in the wake of her teleportation.

As she reappeared behind him she immediately began to vocalize the craven incantation she’d planned. Taking immediate effect, the circle roared in a furious wall of dancing energy. Ricardo snorted and held his arm out to undo it as he had done previously, only to be met with a sharp rebuttal as the circle flared again and struck him with an invisible blow that brought him to his knees.

“What!?” he blurted.

Tess paid no attention, continuing with her rapid intonations. She could not give him an inch to work with.

Ricardo charged the circle, only to be beaten back by its energies like an invisible barricade.

“You are… You’re using three incantations as one?! No! How are you doing this?” Ricardo snarled, twisting and turning in his trap like an animal.

The energies surged and seemed to seize him with barely visible arms as the threads of the spells wrapped him one by one like a tangled web.

“NO! YOU’RE UNDOING ALL OF MY WORK! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!” Ricardo roared, struggling in vain and flaring his own power in an attempt to escape.

Tess winced and shrugged but although it hurt, she never let up, feeling the powers hit home, digging in and upsetting the balance of his self-inflicted madness. It was like upsetting a delicately built house of cards. She barely noticed Nero from the corner of her vision, walking up and staring – in awe, in disdain, it really didn’t matter. Ricardo attempted to counter her work, screaming desperately words of power just to be snuffed every time as she caught him before he could snap them shut. The circles blazed on, seeming to move on the floor, a slow dizzying dance as they turned like a clock.

The spell was complex, with multiple layers all seamlessly working as one when it really shouldn’t have.

“Tess!! Stop!!” Ricardo screamed. “You’re making me a mere demon!! You can’t do this!!”

“I’m making you nothing less than what you are!” she screamed in answer, her face twisting in determination.

She stretched her arms as though grasping something and tightened her fists. The hair-thin, luminous threads of power gathered in her hands like a shroud, stretching vaguely back towards Ricardo. She yanked her arms backwards, as if pulling that shroud off him, with an angry shout. There was a vague tearing noise and Ricardo’s monstrous body tensed, the armour hide cracking. His mask tarnished suddenly and his body was wracked by a spasm as he crashed against the barrier.

He assaulted the edge repeatedly until he broke through it. “NO!”

“Nero!” Tess screamed. “His mask, now!! Before he pulls himself together!!”

Tess watched Nero wind his arm back and lunge forward, the Devil Bringer glowing bright as a large manifestation surged and collided with Ricardo’s head directly. The impact made a loud, hollow metallic crack as Ricardo’s head flew back. The mask had a massive crack on it now and Nero did not relent. Drawing his fist back with an angry grunt, he slammed the Devil Bringer into the alchemist’s face yet again with a thunderous crack, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Ricardo rolled over and stumbled to a stand, staggering backwards into the illuminated circle cast by the weak light through the skylight overhead. The alchemist’s demonic shell shuddered suddenly and he gripped at his face with his hands, cursing denials rapidly. Through his swollen fingers the mirror surface of the mask was breaking apart. The face that the crumbling mask revealed underneath was a stark contrast to the now tarnishing armoured hide of the body; pale, sickly and thin as a skull. His bloodshot eyes were sunken in their sockets, the skin around them blackened and dry, peeling in flecks. He was nothing more than a demon with the face of a sick and weak-minded lunatic.

“Why?” he croaked pathetically at her. “I’m just… trying to save you…!”

Tess’ expression did not change from steel. “I was never yours to protect.”

He responded with a furious charge, creating a massive lance to attack both her and Nero. They both dodged aside, Tess using a blast of flame to knock him away, Nero using the Devil Bringer to snatch the lance away from him and with a decisive move, turned it around, plunging it deep into Ricardo’s chest. He arched backwards and screamed – more of a demon’s bellow than any sound a human could ever produce. It caused both Nero and Tess to reel back and shrug, almost covering their ears.

The glass dome overhead shattered – maybe from the scream, maybe from the repeated impacts that had shaken the room – and the shards, some as long as a man, rained down. A singular shard, not unlike a large blade in shape, fell directly down towards him. It pierced through his weak hide and straight through his neck, silencing him at last as the lance dissolved into burning slime that ate through his body as it slumped on the floor, twitching.

Nero smiled grimly. “That’s gonna leave a mark!”

Tess groaned and bent over, hands on her knees. Her neck hurt more than ever. She had to leave.

“Hey, you alright?” Nero asked her sheepishly.

“I’m fine,” she breathed out. “But you have to listen to me.”

She stood straight and grabbed his arm. She couldn’t tell him much but she could make him listen and follow through with it. “Stop running after Vergil. You need to find Dante.” He opened his mouth to protest. “No, _listen!_ There are bigger things at stake here. He needs to stop Vergil, _regardless of the cost_. Do you understand?!”  

“Why, what’s your deal with him?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you, kiddo,” she groaned, grabbing at her neck as a stab of pain surged through it. “I have to go – _do not_ follow me. It’s too late. But Dante needs to know. Vergil doesn’t understand what he’s about to do. I don’t know who is pulling his strings, but he doesn’t fully get what he’s really doing. Dante needs to get to him before this whole thing blows up in our faces. _Do you understand?!_ ”

Nero seemed like he wanted to argue but instead he just nodded. Tess let go of him and before he could react, she placed him in a binding circle, leaving Nero to slam his fists against it, swearing.

“HEY!”

“I’m sorry, but you really can’t follow me!” she reaffirmed, already fleeing.

The barrier would vanish as soon as she was safely away, allowing Nero to leave, but she could hear his swearing all the way till she left the abandoned hotel, making her way uphill back to the castle. Her neck burned. Vergil demanded her presence and undoubtedly, this was the start of the end. She had put her faith in Dante now to stop this mess because she certainly couldn’t do anything.

It was too late.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If you're reading this as part of a completed work, I have something very important to tell you! 1. THANK YOU! 2. This is your mandatory rest stop. Drink some water, get up, stretch, then go to sleep and come back in the morning. It'll still be here ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein things start to fall into place and Dante tries not to fall apart.

The sun hung low in the sky, hiding behind ever-moving clouds, causing Amaro to become a shifting patchwork of darkness and light, the sun barely managing to break through the clouds as they drifted across the sky. An unearthly silence consumed the town, causing Dante to shudder in discomfort; it was unnatural, even by his standards. The pressure he had felt all day long was still there, sticky and grasping like cobwebs. He and Roy passed through the narrow little streets of Amaro at a quick step, just short of a jog.

“As I understand the situation,” Roy was saying, “even if we can’t find Vergil at the Gate, we must destroy it, preferably before it’s opened. It’s far too big a temptation for anyone wishing to commune with demons.”

Dante could hardly pay him enough attention to grunt out an affirmative noise. His head was too full of his still warring emotions and thoughts. He had allowed anger to cloud his judgement with possibly disastrous consequences. How had he allowed himself to lose it that badly? He briefly wished he believed in some kind of marginally benevolent deity, so that he could pray she wasn’t dead. But, even if Tess had survived, if he was forced to choose between her and his brother, what would he do? As much resent and pain stood between him and Vergil, Dante would be lying to himself if he claimed that he no longer loved his brother. Seeing him now, after believing that he had been dead for so long had rattled his entire being. But he would absolutely give Vergil a piece of his mind about dragging Tess into it, no matter the pretext. Their everlasting feud was strictly their own damn business, nobody else should figure into it!

“Dante,” Roy said firmly.

Dante snapped out of his thoughts and glanced at him. The old man had a concerned gaze behind his shades. “Stay focused. Please,” he said gently. “You don’t need to tell me that there’s bad blood between you two and that we’re meddling – but you need to keep your head clear.”

Roy’s gentle admonition and concern shook him out of his self-torment. Mostly. “I’m fine, Furball,” Dante muttered.

Roy did not press the matter. He smoothly switched the topic. “I’ve been thinking of Tess’ behavior,” he said carefully. “It’s been bothering me. I refuse to believe that she is a willing participant. Demons certainly _can_ controls wiccans, but their behaviour alters drastically when that happens. It’s easy to tell, you would’ve noticed immediately. But from your description of Tess, it doesn’t sound likely. Something else is going on.”

Dante quirked an eyebrow at him. “Like what?”

Annoyed, Roy grunted. “I don’t know. And then there’s the matter of exactly _how_ Vergil came to know about the Tome of Rites. It isn’t common knowledge outside the coven or even written down anywhere, as far as I know. How did he know that he required someone like Tess to use the book _for_ him?”

Dante scowled. That was a good question but he didn’t see how it really had anything to do with their situation. “Vergil always had a thing for obscure supernatural stuff,” he said vaguely.

“Even so, I don’t think research brought him here, regardless of his occult expertise,” Roy groused. “It’s _too_ perfect a plan. It requires… inside knowledge.”

Dante glanced at him sharply again. “You think there was some other traitor in the coven?”

Roy didn’t answer immediately, just frowned, staring ahead blankly. “I wouldn’t be surprised. But it can’t be Ricardo – he’s clever but he doesn’t have the head for _this_ sort of thing.”

They were nearly at the coven. Roy had taken them through some impossibly tiny alleys that Dante found dizzying, despite them being shortcuts that cut right through the already maze-like layout of Amaro. They emerged out on the street where the coven stood to find it empty. The bulk of the local people had already fled.

“Ah,” Roy muttered. “Do you feel that? We aren’t alone.”

Dante smirked grimly. “Looks like someone’s planned some fun.”

It elicited an eye-roll from Roy. “Ever the child,” he muttered. 

Two wiccans stepped out of the shadows of the street. One was a veritable giant of a man with swarthy skin. He was well-groomed with long black hair, a fine aquiline nose and decked in a black dragoon officer’s dress jacket with elegant silver buttons and trim, left undone over a pale purple waistcoat with perfectly tailored charcoal trousers and dark boots. The other was smaller, thinner and leaner, with chestnut hair, a perfectly trimmed moustache and small beard. He was dressed formally in cream jodhpurs, riding boots and a red and silver crushed velvet cavalier vest.

Dante found the choice of attire of these wiccan enforcers amusing – but he could appreciate their sense of style.

Roy on the other hand, seemed less than happy to see them. “Anatoli,” he muttered, glaring at the swarthy one, then the other. “And Aristide. Hand and glove, as ever.”

“We’re surprised to see you, Roy,” the smaller one declared. “You ought to be rotting away in the great cistern.”

Roy grunted. “Yes, I suppose you would know. After all, Anatoli got me there.”

Dante snorted. He knew these two were the same as Albrecht, only in power; they seemed eager to fight. “Y’know, it’ll be easier if you two just get lost right now, as Roy and me have some business to attend. We don’t really have time to have some fun.”

“No,” rumbled Anatoli. “You will not enter the coven. We will finish what was started years ago, _familiar_.”

Roy sniffed disdainfully and with his hands clasped behind his back he turned to Dante. “Shall we just take one each?”

Dante returned the look with the same exaggerated civility. “There’s no need. I can handle them. You should rest, old man.”

Roy snorted. “I have no doubt that you could. But you,” he said, poking Dante’s chest in jest, “will take all evening and spend more time heckling them than fighting. Therefore, I’ll take the big one.”

Before Dante could protest further than a scoff, Roy whipped around and with the most carefree step, paced right up to Anatoli who was already starting to flare his demonic powers. Aristide on the other hand, advanced forward with a spring in his step and a perfectly amiable smile, stopping before Dante with a small bow before he started to change to a demonic surprisingly quickly and smoothly.

“Mano-a-mano, as they say,” he tittered.

Dante just chuckled and drew his sword, just as Aristide’s demonic form performed a graceful, precise lunge, with the viciously pointed end of an ornate rapier bound for Dante’s heart. He moved like a flash but Dante could see that his form was little different; his skin turned charcoal and reflective, like tarnished silver, his eyes streaming a baleful blue aura with his mouth fixed in a grin of pointy teeth. His vest had become enveloped in baleful, blue glow, exuding a wisp vapour of power. Agonized faces were frozen in silent screams, shifting in and out of the smoky aura.

Dante spun out of the way of the lunge, swinging his sword to knock the blade aside as he went, but Aristide recovered remarkably quickly. He spun around with uncanny precision, delivering a barrage of rapid stabs that Dante had to parry with Rebellion. Every move he made left a faint blue-grey trail behind him. Dante managing to deflect the blade as he drew and fired Ivory, the shot landing wide as Aristide dodged backwards with staggering speed.

In that instant Dante caught sight of Roy’s fight with Anatoli. His demonic form was even bigger, decked in flowing dark robes that matched his shifting, ethereal presence with a dull yellow glow in his eyes – the only thing visible in the void that had replaced his face under the hood of his robes. He swung a massive halberd, just for Roy to casually step right into the weapon’s range and furnish Anatoli with such an impressive haymaker punch that Dante almost felt like cheering.

However, he had his hands full with Aristide, who was dodging just about everything Dante could throw at him, being almost just as fast as Dante was. His control of the rapier was admirable and he succeeded in piercing through Dante’s shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain from the hunter. The blade was so cold it burned on contact and as Aristide withdrew it, Dante felt his shoulder _not_ healing as fast as it ought to.

“Touché, my good sir,” Dante scoffed.

“You are very good!” Aristide chuckled.  

Aristide bounced back and with a burst of his unnatural speed, zipped around Dante, carving a circle of marks into the ground before bellowing a few clinking words.

The demon hunter grunted, feeling the surge of energies trying to trap him, just like Albrecht had attempted. He twirled his sword in hand to hold it back-handed in order to concentrate and ground his teeth, flaring his power in order to resist the binds that crept ever closer. Rebellion glowed, sparking with concentrated power that Dante suddenly hurled forward, catching Aristide unawares and breaking his concentration, allowing him to shake the binding spell off, lunging with a powerful stinger to follow through with the assault, as Aristide was still reeling.

Amazingly, Aristide parried his assault. They engaged in a series of rapid sword clashes, each trying to get past the other’s defenses, dancing all along the street, their arms and legs working tirelessly. They flashed past Roy and Anatoli’s fight; Dante caught sight of a blast of sand blinding Anatoli. Roy seized his arm, and, without a hint of strain, twisted it and proceeded to throw Anatoli against the coven’s building.

Dante tilted his head to let the enforcer’s blade pass just inches from his face, whipping his gun out of the folds of his coat to fire a point-blank shot into Aristide’s chest. It forced him backwards and Dante shook some frost off his gun from the contact with his target. Finally he decided he’d had enough fun. The next time Aristide zipped around and tried to lunge him from the back, Dante let him have it. Just before the blade reached him, Dante’s demonic form flashed into being. Aristide’s rapier went straight through his chest, just barely missing his heart but now Dante hardly felt it. He grabbed the end of the rapier jutting out of his chest and pulled hard.

Aristide gasped as his own sword went flying from his hand as Dante forced it straight through himself. With the sword free of his chest, he tossed it up, snatched it by the hilt, all in one fluid motion, stabbing Aristide through the neck with the rapier with one hand while driving Rebellion through his chest with the other. Aristide gasped, choking out a strange noise as blood burst out of his injuries. He seemed shocked. Dante allowed his demonic form to fade, drawing Rebellion abruptly and leaving Aristide to slump to his knees with a weak groan.

“An excellent… match…” he wheezed before he fell to the side.

His power faded and like Albrecht had, his demonic form only half-faded, leaving him a brittle half-human, half-monstrous shell. Dante sheathed his sword with a huff and looked up to catch Roy finishing off Anatoli. In a burst of sand, Abraxas made his appearance with an angry snarl, snatched the now sluggish Anatoli in his jaws… and crunched down. Dante winced at the awful scream cut short by the snapping of bone, the body being crushed and going limp after a moment of horrible tension. Abraxas jerked his head to the side and spat him out, a crushed mass that bent all the wrong ways as the demonic powers faded from it.

Another swirl of sand and there was Roy, hands on his knees, panting. He gagged and spat on the ground, making Dante smirk.

“Gone a little Animal Planet, old man?” he quipped.

“Shut it,” Roy chuckled quietly.

They returned to the coven and, as soon as they got close enough, Dante grimaced at the formidable protective barriers around it.

“Got any ideas for getting in?” he quizzed. “Because I get the feeling I could whack at this all day and get nowhere.”

Roy smirked. “Yes, I can just imagine your attempts,” he said, amused. “I’m afraid this will take a little more know-how than brute force. I’ll deal with it.” 

As much as it annoyed him, Dante had to bow to Roy’s superior expertise over raw power. He brushed past Dante, reaching out to the invisible wall with his hand. It fizzled on contact with the spell but other than a small twitch Roy ignored it. He let his hand spread on the surface and gingerly felt about, as if fishing for a weakness. He hummed quietly in contemplation until he finally stopped moving his hand and pressed his fingers hard against it.

Dante watched him with interest as Roy grimaced in concentration. The wall he was pressing against started to ripple, becoming somewhat visible like a sheet of water or gauze. The ripples focused on the spots where Roy’s fingers were trying to dig into the wall, as if trying to repel it. His hand shook.

There were small sparks and crackles of clashing powers as Roy pushed his hand firmly against the outer wall, gritting his teeth as he did. The surface between his hand and the wall started to blacken and ripple violently – a strong reaction was taking place and his hand started to slowly slip past the seal as if it was dissolving under his hand. Although Dante still couldn’t feel anything specific coming from Roy, it was obvious he was exerting a considerable amount of power, judging from the gritty, pale gold aura that surrounded his hand and started to expand.

Roy grunted a little and his face contorted further as he pushed more firmly and the yellow expanded abruptly into the invisible aura, tearing it apart with a loud fizzling sound and more cracklings of energy.

“Yer just full of surprises, ain’t cha, old man,” Dante said cheekily.

Roy pulled back his hand from the expanding tear in the spell, and cradled his wrist; his hand looked red, raw and covered with some blisters as smoke rose from it. He smiled stiffly at Dante.

"Hrmph!" he grunted. "If we’re not dead when this is all done, you and I will have a little ‘chat’ and we’ll see about you calling me old.”

Dante grinned at the prospect of a proper spar with the old goat. “Deal.”

Beyond the wards, designed to keep them at bay, the palazzo still had a pair of heavy doors that were bolted and locked. They hardly slowed them down as Dante drew his sword and sliced them apart with an angry sound of crunching wood. The courtyard he’d seen earlier this day was deserted. The entire building was silent. Dante could sense that almost everyone had fled. A frightened wail issued from one of the rooms on the side.

“Leave them be,” Roy said calmly, walking on. “They have enough to worry about. I doubt they’ll get in our way.”

Roy ushered Dante along and into one of the doors around the courtyard, through a hallway and up a staircase that lead to the upper floors.

“Here we are,” Roy muttered in front of an ornately carved wooden door.

He ignored the seal of red wax and black cord on it, forcing it open with a violent application of his foot. Dante smirked. Roy always made such a show of being a master of subtlety but right now he certainly wasn’t messing around.

The room beyond the door was large and elegant, decorated with tapestries and paintings of old masters, furnished with antiques that Dante felt sure cost more than his entire damn office. Roy on the other hand, cringed with disdain, probably on account of knowing the owner. Then they both looked at each other and Dante was certain they shared a thought: What on earth was that smell?

“Burned flesh,” Roy said matter-of-factly.

Their gazes were drawn to a form under a sheet, laid out on a table on the other side of the room. Another sheet covered a large mirror standing next to the wardrobe. The curtains were drawn.

Roy looked disgusted and at the same time, disturbed. “Regina’s body,” he muttered. “Rites of the dead and all that. Not that she deserves peace after all that she’s done. Ruddy bitch probably forced Tess’ hand. She’d never kill someone with fire.”

Dante stared at the covered body as Roy hurried over to the escritoire and bookcases standing on the opposite corner. Dante winced at the number of books.

“This’ll take forever,” he muttered.

“Hush,” Roy shushed him. “I know what I’m looking for. Regina is a stickler and she would keep documents like the one we’re looking for separate.”

Dante folded his arms over his chest and felt himself get distracted again by his troubled thoughts. All of this death and ruin left in Vergil’s wake – _again_. He entertained a grim thought: Was this some kind of… revenge on Vergil’s part? Was his brother deliberately using Tess because she had been Dante’s friend, just to hurt him? He had _killed_ Vergil after all, as he kept reminding himself. But it didn’t make sense, Vergil wouldn’t stoop that low.

Would he? 

Roy said that Tess would never kill someone with fire, but here it was: Stark evidence that she had, in fact, done so. Was it under Vergil’s order? Was he really controlling her somehow? He knew of the stories of witches and demons partnering up but he just knew in his gut that Vergil wouldn’t do that. The prospect of Tess being forced to do that to another human being out of self-defense wasn’t any comfort, either.

The smell of the burnt body further distracted him, making him wonder just how much damage Tess had done. He glanced at Roy, approached the corpse and gingerly lifted the edge of the sheet.

He pulled back in disgust. Regina had burned while very much alive, if the expression on her charred face was any indication: Jaws agape in a shriek and neck twisted in convulsions. Her limbs were fixed over her chest in a spasm, hands clutching feebly. He recalled meeting her and estimated that she had shrunk to about half her total mass, maybe more. Tess had burned her to a crisp. Now he realized what her expression when she ran into him had meant. The terror on her face wasn’t due to him.  

She had been horrified from what she’d done.

Guilt gripped at him for his behaviour towards her. Roy was right. She’d never do _this_ to another human being unless she was forced to.

“I’ve got it!” Roy said triumphantly, holding a map of the city with multiple markings. “It’s all right here – the main Gate and the smaller ones around the city. We need to go. _Now!_ ”

Dante wheeled around, relief and eagerness plain on his face. “Great, let’s get this show on the road.”

Roy opened his mouth for some wit, but just stared at Dante – or rather over his shoulder, with a frozen look on his face. Dante felt a chill run down his spine and the presence of some fell power that had nothing to do with demons or wiccans, and, for some inexplicable reason, filled him with a sense of dread that he had never felt before. He heard a light crunch, like the crack of dry twigs, as a bony, gritted hand clasped his arm, making him want to turn, to whip around and confront the darkness pawing at him. The other arm, covered in charred, putrid flesh wrapped over his shoulder in something like a sleeper hold. The awful proximity of _death,_ more than the rattling and creaking of dry bones and disintegrating flesh let him know that the charred body lying on the table was getting up.

“Dante, don’t move!” Roy commanded him as he was about to tear himself free again. “Let it speak!”

The dry, cracked voice that whispered from the depths of an abyss threatened to send him trembling.

“The book… the book… She is at the Gate… and she reaches ever closer… with the half-human wretch dancing at another’s chain and a book full of lies,” said the voice in his ear. “The Lady of Rags and the hole in the side of the world…”

Dante cringed. The putrid smell of the burned body burned his nostrils, but more than that, this closeness to death – not a dead body, he had no trouble with those, but death itself, the very essence of it, being gripped by something so evidently dead, and yet not… it made every bit of him, human or demon, simply repulsed at the idea of being touched by death. His demonic half was terrified – immortal things have no notion of death until they are made mortal and made to understand what death is. They learn to fear it more than mortals do.

He didn’t dare glance over and see if the jaws of the singed head were actually moving, creaking like rusted machines, or whether the voice was simply coming out of the body without motion. He didn’t feel like facing sockets filled with burned flesh and nothing but an empty, eternal gaze.

“A hole in the side of the world… a hole for the king to come through… beckoned by the book… the book…! _The book!!_ ”

A hysterical, awful laugh came from the corpse, shrieking and hollow – very suited for death.

“That’s quite enough now!” Roy snapped, reaching over and disentangling the corpse from Dante.

Dante stumbled away from it, under Roy’s unexpectedly gentle hand, the familiar letting the corpse drop onto the table again, where it fell apart. He pulled the sheet over it again without a word.

“The hell was _that_?” Dante muttered, shaking himself down.

“A revenant,” Roy said grimly. “Regina’s corpse reanimated by what’s left of her power, her resent and the influence of that blasted book. She died in anger, no doubt, and that sort of death can be… incomplete if you’ve been meddling with powers not meant for you. She still craves the damn Tome, poor wretch.”

Dante rubbed the back of his neck. “What about what she said?”

Roy shook his head. “Ramblings about the book and half-human wretches aside, there’s one thing she said that worries me and it explains a lot of things,” he said. “The Lady of Rags. That would be the Ragged Lady, the Templar family’s big ol’ boogeyman.”

Dante quirked an eyebrow. “The what?”

Roy growled. “The Ragged Lady,” he muttered. “She’s a creature that’s haunted Tess’ bloodline for almost its entire existence. I’ve only caught glimpses of her in my life with them but she’s real alright. I have no idea who she really is but she makes a point of tormenting the family – always through other means. I always felt her hand behind many of their deaths.”

Dante frowned. “You guys never told me about that.”

He regretted it immediately – after all, he hadn’t told them much about his family, had he?

Roy just shook his head. “I had no reason to. She never was this… visible before. She always worked her schemes from the side-lines. I believe that she simply _can’t_ touch the family directly.”

“Think she’s involved, then?”

“Could be,” Roy nodded. “And… it explains a lot of things. She may be the one who told Vergil about the Tome. I don’t know why she would, though. Come on now, there’s no use mulling it over. The Gate is up the mountainside, in the old overlook castle. The town’s centre used to be up there, before the great plague.”

Dante groaned. “Why’s it always a castle? I’ve been to so many of the damn things that I swear I should be getting a travel discount by now,” he muttered, following Roy.

They left the palazzo which was quite deserted by now, just to nearly run into Nero right outside.

“Finally!” the little punk snapped. “Where the fuck have you been?!”

Dante ignored his attitude and the urge to just deck the kid. “Did you find Tess?”

“Is he with you?” Roy asked Dante, slightly bewildered.

“The hell I am!” Nero snapped at Roy before turning to Dante. “Yeah, I found her. Had to beat the shit out of her crazy ex too.”

Roy groaned. “Did you see Tess? Is she alright?”

“She looked fine to me when she blew that freakin’ mad scientist up,” Nero snapped. “She took off right after the guy bit it. Look, she wanted me to give you a message.”

Dante frowned. A message? She’d give Nero a message for him but couldn’t talk to him herself?

Nero folded his arms. “She said that you need to stop Vergil, whatever the cost is. She stressed that. Said that Vergil doesn’t understand what he’s doing. Not himself or something like that.”

Dante’s face clouded and he looked away. Regardless the cost; he knew what that meant and judging by his groan, so did Roy. Tess was telling him to disregard her and just do what needed to be done. Vergil was still caught in Mundus’ webs and was probably not acting rationally.

Nero shrugged. “So what now? We find—“

“No,” Dante snapped. “ _You_ will piss off and let me handle this. It’s my problem.”

“One moment,” Roy interjected, looking at Nero. “You two can bicker as much as you like _after_ I’ve had some answers. Tell me about Tess. How did she act?”

Nero blinked at Roy, likely trying to determine who he was – and _what_ he was. “I dunno; she looked squirrely. Ricardo said something about her being controlled—“

Dante felt his chest tightening uncomfortably and he flinched visibly. Nero’s eyes darted at him, curiously.

“Ah!” Roy blurted. “Tell me exactly what he said, this is very important.”

“He said something about a ‘girdle’, whatever that is,” Nero shrugged.

Roy blanched and his eyes widened. “Was she wearing anything on her neck?”

Dante shifted his weight uncomfortably. “She was when I saw her earlier. A black choker.”

Roy cursed so badly that even Nero seemed offended. “I’m an idiot!” he concluded. “The moment the Ragged Lady came into play I should have suspected!”

“Suspected what?” Dante snapped.

“Hecate’s Girdle,” Roy snarled. “No wonder Tess wouldn’t speak to you. The Girdle’s effect prevents her from speaking about her situation and Vergil must have specifically commanded her not to speak with you.”

At the similar confused looks the two devil hunters, Roy explained briefly. “Hecate’s Girdle is a very old way to enslave a witch or warlock that was developed by _wiccans themselves_ as a form of punishment and torture,” he said. “The problem is that it can be abused by _anyone_ with sufficient knowledge, which made it a favoured tactic of witch hunters. The Ragged Lady must have instructed Vergil in its use. It’s a disturbing method of control as the victim retains their sense of self entirely. They’re simply forced to obey every command given to them without question. And of course, since she can’t touch the family herself—“

“That’s… why she needed Vergil,” Dante concluded.

“Yes. I don’t know how she did it, but it seems she retrieved him out of… wherever he was and gave him the means to orchestrate this,” Roy said grimly. “I’m so sorry, Dante. It seems like your present troubles tie right into ours.”

Dante resisted the urge to turn around and punch one of the buildings. A red hot anger coursed through him and he didn’t care if it made his powers flare outwards or if it was evident on his face. Someone was controlling or at the very least, manipulating his brother. _Again_. Yet Vergil himself had gone too far this time. Dante certainly wanted to snap him out of this situation, but he’d still shove his boot so far up Vergil’s ass that his brother would taste leather.

“So where is he?” Nero insisted.

Dante almost backhanded him. “That’s my problem! You and Roy, you go deal with the Gates around the town,” he snapped curtly. “I’ll take care of Vergil – and if you try to follow me, Nero, I’ll be happy to rip that arm of yours right off and maybe a few more limbs to boot.”

Roy looked at Dante warily and then turned to Nero, who was about to let loose with some choice words, and maybe even his arsenal. “Look, it’s paramount that they be dealt with and I _will_ need the help. I can disable the wiccan barriers around them but may lack the power to actually destroy their physical presence. Besides, there will most certainly be demons pouring out of them by now.”

Dante glared Nero down, suspecting that he’d managed to frighten the little punk, even though Nero refused to show it. His face was still fixed in that angry, stubborn scowl, but his demonic powers were… cowering. He can’t have liked that but Dante didn’t give a toss. He was going to deal with this situation himself and that was final.

Roy’s calm intervention probably helped, the old cat always did have a way with smoothing things over with angry half-demons.

“…Fine,” Nero muttered. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’ll explain to you as we go, we don’t have the luxury of time,” Roy batted him down gently.

Roy pointed the ruined castle out to Dante and then broomed Nero off before they could argue further. Dante stormed off, trying to control his emotions. He felt immense relief that he hadn’t ended up killing her with that shot. And he was never happier to have been proven wrong – she hadn’t betrayed their friendship. But… she was under someone’s control and he hadn’t even stopped to consider that she might have needed his help. He kicked himself over and over. But then he got angry. Tess was asking him to disregard her and focus on the situation at hand. The damn selfish idiot, asking him to do that after he shot her!? He ground his teeth, on one hand eagerly anticipating his prospective battle with Vergil, while dreading the cost it might have on the other.

The ruined castle hung heavily on the cliffs above.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a ritual begins.

Vergil contemplated the Tome of Rites, set on a table in the middle of the ruined hall. The book had an eerie, almost familiar energy and he could not completely ignore the tempting pull of the faint whisper emanating from it… or was it his ears were playing tricks on him? He could swear the book spoke but when he tried to actually focus on what was said, he heard absolutely nothing.

All the same, he didn’t fall for its call. He wouldn’t be opening the book, he was already contending with another power for command of his will. He paced away from it slowly, stopping by one of the once great windows in the once vaulted hall of the old fort, now laying in ruin, open to the sky, the ceiling long since fallen in but for one preserved edge. The sea beyond and below was an attractive and strangely calming sight for him. Facing Dante, earlier than he had wished, had been taxing.

He hated contemplating these things; they inevitably drew his mind to his own fall and the broken, fragmented memories of his long suffering and submission. He didn’t remember everything – his mind had purged large parts of it in a bid to protect itself but what he did remember filled him with both dread and anger and the anger fed on itself and just grew in magnitude until it hurt. What he recalled the most was the sense of being a mere audience in his own body, barely able to influence what he did and how he acted. His memories of that time, too, were vague. He knew he and Dante had clashed, multiple times but the exact state of mind and emotion evaded him. He sensed that Dante had grown in power and skill since then. He recalled Nelo Angelo’s frustration between considering him a worthy opponent and yet a loathsome cur.

Vergil had evaded his exact feelings towards Dante about the end of their deadly dance with almost religious zeal. Every time his mind strayed there, Vergil would rein it back, refuse to contemplate it. But it tugged at him, leaving him bitter and angry and yet… grateful? It didn’t feel as though Dante had killed him – Nelo Angelo had fallen that day, not him. The twisted shadow of who he was had failed and he was free of Mundus’ control, if only partially, through that false death.

But still.

Resentment’s ugly claw remained hooked in him whenever he contemplated his foolish brother. A desire to clash with him and put the whelp in his place overtook him, leaving Vergil feeling deeply vexed. It was such a… human emotion, this desire for their twisted brotherly contact.

He hardly looked over at her approach. Tess had returned at last. He had no gratitude for her defending him during his scrap with Dante – it was a loathsome little necessity, something imposed on her by the Girdle that kept her bound to him. Dante’s hesitation after shooting her had given him an opportunity to attack.

His experiences had left him with little time for honour.

“You’re back,” he observed flatly, as though addressing a piece of furniture.

“Ricardo is dead,” she said dully.

Vergil had nothing much to say about that. “You’ve saved me the trouble then.”

Ricardo’s removal was convenient. He’d hated the weedy little alchemist from their first ever encounter and Vergil had spent the past year resenting the fact that he had depended on his concoctions and tinctures to strengthen himself. He was just another fool dancing on the Ragged Lady’s string, fuelled by an obsession that even Vergil found irritating. He turned at last, facing her, noting the change in her demeanour. Up till now, Vergil had been keenly aware of her deep-seated but quiet resent; he had sensed, through the chain that ensured her obedience, the underlying defiance and resistance that had punctuated all of their interactions so far. She always stalled and interfered, exploiting every tiny loophole she could find, skirting the edge of his patience because he needed her.

And now it was gone.

She looked at him with eyes that had lost all spark and appetite for resistance and were simply reflections of quiet, resigned grief.

 _She is broken,_ he thought.

He found no reaction in himself to her state. She wasn’t his problem, she was just the means to an end.

“There’s work for you to finish,” he told her emphatically. “And then we can be done with each other.”

Still she didn’t react, just looked right through him. “Yes, Master.”

He flicked his hand towards the book. “The Tome of Rites contains a ritual known as the Movement of the World. You will find it, prepare it and perform it. You are to free me of Mundus’ control.”

She finally focused on him. “And what does your silent partner wish, Master?”

Vergil’s brow quirked. “What was that?” he said quietly.

“You are not alone in this endeavour, Master” she said quietly. “Someone has guided you in all this because they want something too. What is it?”

Vergil was equally irritated and impressed. The Ragged Lady was exerting considerable powers to cloud her Deep Sight, and yet, here he had crystal clear evidence that it had utterly failed, speaking volumes about the extent of this young woman’s powers of sight. He entertained the idea of exploiting them further but banished the thought quickly. He cared little for humans, and no power of their getting could change that.

He knew the Ragged Lady had decided to make her appearance even before he heard the soft rush of cloth, or her raspy chuckle. Her loathsome, vile presence made itself evident even before she appeared out of thin air, as was her habit.

“I am very impressed, my dear,” she purred at Tess. “Your Deep Sight is almost as formidable as mine. Even my most potent arts have failed to confound it entirely.”

At the sight of her, Tess’ face lost all colour and her eyes widened with fear and surprise. The Ragged Lady seemed very amused at her reaction, chuckling delicately. She glided towards the witch, reaching out to caress her cheek like a doting aunt, causing the redhead to flinch backwards violently. The effect she had on the witch seemed to please the Ragged Lady, who smiled broadly.

“Do you know me my dear, that you would ask of me?” she inquired sweetly.

Tess was mute with shock, just staring and shivering faintly – not with fear, Vergil noticed. She was angry. Her hands opened and closed, like a cat sharpening its claws, in impotent anger. If the redhead had her freedom, he contemplated, she would’ve very likely attacked the Ragged Lady.

The Ragged Lady chuckled at her silence. “What is it, my dear? Cat got your tongue, as they say?”

“You are the Ragged Lady,” Tess said through clenched teeth.

“So glad you know me, dear. What I want is to be free as well. Free from a curse.”

Vergil jerked his arm to the side. “Enough of this!” he rumbled. “Let’s be done with this charade. She will perform the ritual for us, _now_.”

“Why yes, she shall,” the Ragged Lady purred, accosting Tess, guiding her towards the table. “Don’t worry, my dear. I will guide you right through it…”

Tess shrugged her away with a violent flinch that the Ragged Lady avoided all too languidly. She loomed over Tess as the girl stumbled to the table and opened the book. Tess fumbled with the pages and suddenly tried to back away, wincing and shrugging in evident pain – her resistance was back, more out of fear than resent, and the Girdle punished her.

“Yes, the book is potent, isn’t it?” the Ragged Lady purred. “Don’t fear it, dear.”

Vergil confessed to himself that he found the Ragged Lady’s barely restrained fixation with the girl revolting. He could see the wraith-like woman’s bony fingers twitch with anticipation, clearly imagining strangling the witch with her own hands. So much barely concealed, unashamed hate, it was utterly pathetic.

Tess turned yet another page and stopped. Studying the page, her face betrayed the abject horror of its contents.

“There… The Movement of the World,” the Ragged Lady purred. “Nothing is beyond its scope. Done correctly, it affords means to achieve anything. _Anything_. The world, time and space bend to your will.”

Tess did not share her enthusiasm. She stared right at Vergil, her brows knitted together harshly.

“What is it?” he asked harshly.

“I have to warn you, Master,” she said. “This ritual calls upon tremendous, uncontrollable powers. It may fail.”

The Ragged Lady scoffed angrily. “It won’t,” she snapped. “You will succeed. I have foreseen this.”

Tess ignored her, fixing on Vergil. “You are meddling with wild, unpredictable powers, Master. You cannot expect to tame them as you do the power of demons. They will not yield. Not to me, not to her and not to you. If it fails, we will _all_ perish.”

Vergil’s scowl deepened. “Then stop stalling. Begin.”

Tess’ gaze was calm once more, looking down at the page with quiet resignation. “Yes, Master.”

“I will guide you through the construction of the necessary circles,” the Ragged Lady said. “Be patient, Vergil.”

He watched Tess pick up the book and study it, the Ragged Lady whispering to her instructions as she used her innate gift with fire to begin tracing the signs. He watched the girl work reluctantly under the Ragged Lady’s instruction, creating ever greater circles and tracing them with runes that were foreign to him. He recognized them as signs of great potency, however, almost by instinct. The site of the ritual was massive, almost twenty feet across in every side, with a myriad of circles within circles, breaking between them and placed so they abutted others to form shapes, containing seemingly endless signs and symbols, some demonic, some wiccan and some which were entirely foreign to him. 

She faltered, a few times, her legs seeing unable to hold her. The Ragged Lady would intervene, grasping her arm commanding the fire to hold her steady without a word.

The book was having an effect on her. He could still feel its tug and he saw the Ragged Lady sometimes caress the damnable thing while Tess still held it, almost as though it were a child. He sneered at her silently, watching her dote on this like a child awaiting to tear open a gift. He was simply anticipating Dante’s arrival. Despite the Ragged Lady’s care to hide their activities, he didn’t doubt that Dante would show up.

Their confrontations always seemed fated. Why should this prove to be any different?

He had never questioned why they clashed. Dante was weak, deliberately allowing gaping openings in his defences with his foolish charade of humanity. Why would he bother? They _weren’t_ human. Neither were they demons. They were Sparda’s sons and they carried a legacy, a promise of power far greater than either species, and yet, Dante forever resisted. He would never understand his sibling. Dante simply infuriated him.

“How much longer,” he demanded impatiently.

“We are nearly complete,” the Ragged Lady purred.

When it was finally done, Tess had to stop and lean against the table to catch her breath. Vergil eyed the expanse of symbols strewn across the stone floor. It was massive. He often wondered why wiccan rituals required such a complexity of circles – this one was on a scale he had not yet imagined. He understood that every circle in a ritual was bound to the invocation and control of at least one of the powers involved. What Tess had just completed had more circles, runes and symbols than anything he’d seen before and he quietly wondered whether the witch could really harness this much power.

Certainly, the strain _should_ be enough to kill her, mortal as she was, once the ritual concluded. But that certainly wasn’t his problem.

The book’s call seemed to latch onto these thoughts, his mind and the book's whispers turning to ponder on how such a power might be harnessed. He growled quietly, shaking it from his mind. Mundus’ hold on him was making his focus waver and teeter about like a ship in a storm.

Tess stood straight, surveying the ritual site with a resigned, distant expression. It was impossible to discern whether she was afraid or concerned, and honestly he didn’t care in the slightest. He watched the Ragged Lady; even now, so close to their goal, Vergil hated that he couldn’t understand her agenda. This fixation of hers with the girl and the idea of mere vengeance… could it really be that simple? Once free of the curse weighing down on her, what would the creature do? He would have to keep a close watch on her, lest she turn out to be like Arkham, a sycophant and grasping thief. He entertained the idea of ridding himself of her regardless of the outcome. She was too dangerous to him to allow her to live.

“Are you prepared, Vergil?” Tess asked him suddenly, breaking his train of thought.

He moved his gaze on her as she stood in the middle of the circles, holding the book open and looking back at him with the strangest gaze, unlike anything he had seen on her face before.

“Once this ritual begins, nothing can stop it. There is no backing out,” she said. “If… you feel the hold of whatever torments you during the ritual, there is no telling what it will do to you.”

The Ragged Lady glided past her. “He will be well,” she said flatly.

Vergil narrowed his eyes at the witches, glance flicking briefly between them. The Ragged Lady was so eager to get it over with, yet Tess hesitated despite her resignation. He stepped forward, into the circle that the Ragged Lady instructed him to stand in while the site was being formed. She moved smoothly to her own.

“Begin,” he told Tess.

Tess shut her eyes, taking a deep breath and steeling herself. She stared at the book and began to recite the first of many incantations, thread-like, stringy words. From the very first stanza, the power they carried started to thrum in the open space, the circles and symbols started to react. She gripped the book tighter and the shrug of her shoulders spoke of anxiety and fear. The circles began to resonate with power – or rather, _powers_. Vergil could feel them building up, gathering like the clouds of a storm. A collision of worlds was imminent and he was to be at the centre of it.

The circles started to blaze with palpable, visible power, licking up like flames and a gauzy smoke that lingered and hovered. It looked like dye spreading in water, like sheets of the finest, diaphanous material, like cobwebs and liquid light. It was there and not there, visible to his demonic sense but half-hidden to his other senses. The roofless hall shuddered faintly.

Then suddenly a new force made its appearance. It skirted the circles hesitantly, like a wild animal might prowl around the fire of a hunting party. Then it surged, diving into the circles with them as though nothing could stop it. Vergil felt himself go rigid and unable to move. The Ragged Lady shrieked in indignation.

“No!” she said. “Something is not right! What have you done, child?! Who dares…?!”

She was struck dumb as both of them were fairly pinned to the ground of their circles by the ritual’s powers, even as this foreign presence grew. Vergil felt it pressing against him. Death. This entity was neither demonic, nor wiccan. It was the awful presence of death and it made Vergil’s skin crawl against his will. He had brushed up against this cold, gripping sensation once and it had marked him. Now he felt it even more keenly and his resolve… wavered for a moment before he grit his teeth.

He would not be swayed!

 

XXXXXX

 

Dante didn’t need a map to find the ruined castle. For a while there had been a veritable beacon of gathering energies to guide him. He could feel the ebb of demonic energy being channelled toward it by the smaller gates. All he really had to do was follow.

He saw it as he moved through overgrown ruins of a once prosperous town, before the occupants had fled the horror of the Black Death. The low wall that had crumbled in places from time and neglect, hid little of the once imposing structure that this fortified outpost must have been. This was no decorative edifice like the castle of Fortuna, this beast had been built to withstand war, weather and time, a hulking mass of stone that made no attempts at decorative aesthetics beyond what hewn stone could achieve before losing its strength.

Clouds had swept the sky all day, but now, they seemed to darken, slowly swelling overhead, sign enough that rain was either imminent, or that this was indeed the place where all that tightly-wound tension that plaguing Amaro the entire day was about to break. The air was electrified with the thrum of gathering powers. Dante was familiar with this sensation of powers closing in, he’d felt it before time and time again.

There was nothing to stop him; the wall that the castle’s defenders could once count upon to protect them was no impediment. There was no gate left to close, Dante simply darted through the opening in the wall, where it had once stood, continuing uphill toward the ruin with haste. He stopped before the structure itself, both to catch his breath and to rein his warring emotions into check. All the same, his attempt was undermined by the unmistakable feeling that a Gate was opening, very near him. And it felt like a big one, bigger even than Fortuna’s. Already the area was rumbling and starting to acquire that distinct feeling of being tainted.

Time had run out.

He made for the structure itself, noticing the ruined walls and trying to guess where they were. Crossing a ruined vestibule into an open courtyard, he glanced at the large tree inhabiting it. Its leaves were shrivelling and starting to wilt before his very eyes. Something was very wrong and even as he dove towards where the sensation was strongest, he sensed Vergil in the maelstrom of huge amounts of power gathering. He couldn’t place these powers and it concerned him. They almost felt like demonic but then again not, vaguely familiar and yet alien.

They flowed like water around the place, continuing to get stronger, like a river was feeding into a brook and turning it into a torrent.

His skin was prickling with the sensations of it and his senses grew confused. Where was it even coming from?! This ruin felt like closing in until he caught sight of it, the eerie light breaching through the cracks and seams of the stonework. The wall reached up high but the room beyond had no roof.

He took a deep breath and with a quick jump, kicking off a column opposite it, he vaulted over the wall. He wanted to have a calm head and maybe even a little witticism ready for whatever he was going to confront and yet he failed miserably.

He stood just outside a truly massive ritual site that spanned nearly the entire roofless great hall. The energies present hit him in the face like a hammer and cobwebs of them wrapped around him, his coat billowing as air rushed inwards towards the centre, as if the ritual itself was trying to devour everything into itself. The ancient stones were alight with the glow coming from the circles on the floor, a fluctuating lightshow that cast a series of eldritch shadows over the walls.

The room shuddered, revolted or terrified of whatever was happening within its walls. Everything was rumbling faintly, giving Dante the unsettling sensation that the room was somehow alive.

He was rooted on the spot, confused at the sensation of demonic powers mingling with the forces that only wiccans knew how to invoke – there was so much of it all crammed in that room that he felt strangely uneasy.

And he wasn’t alone. Vergil stood within one circle and famously, he looked petrified. The practiced mask of cold detachment Vergil always seemed to cultivate had apparently failed him. His face was locked in genuine surprise – there was the slight sag of the jaw and the wide, staring eyes. Even the inky blackness of his gaze couldn’t hide his bewilderment. On the opposite end of the circles a vaguely wraith-like hooded figure, wreathed in ruined dark robes, was crumbled on the ground with her arms up, making a cracked noise of confusion and babbling in some language Dante could not hope to decipher. It seemed that neither of them had anticipated the sheer magnitude of the ritual.

He swept the hall for Tess. A forgotten feeling, the proverbial heart jumping into his throat, gripped him as he finally noticed her, in the heart of this ordeal, wrapped in gauzy energies that raged about her. She stood but barely in the middle of the circles, holding the Tome in her shaking hands. Her head was tossed back and her expression fixed in shock, her mouth half-open in a silent scream.

Dante felt a shiver run down his spine. There it was, again, that vague touch of death, the same that he had felt when Regina’s revenant grabbed him. Death brushing against him and it was worse this time. Something was here and it was _examining_ him. Then it dove away and he sensed rather than saw it drift around Tess vaguely.

This power gathering was doing something to her. Her knees were failing her and her skin was deathly pale, drenched in perspiration but something held her up, kept her awake and continuing this ritual. He nearly dove into the circles to get to her – but even his demonic side balked at the idea. Far from an expert on wiccan rituals, his instincts alone screamed that if he barged into the circles now, the ritual would be interrupted, exacting a very dear price on everyone present. No, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t even call out to her; any break in her concentration might doom her. He felt like screaming at his own helplessness.

His presence finally got Vergil to tear his eyes from the witch and the two of them exchanged a long look. Dante saw the race of emotions through his brother’s face and knew that in a way his face betrayed the same. Confusion reigned supreme, but also anger of a different sort. Both reached for their blades vaguely but neither drew sword. Their arms were just so heavy and stiff.

“Vergil!” he barked. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Dante!” Vergil spat back.

That’s all they spoke to each other before everything simply seemed to stop. Time slowed to a crawl and sound wound down to a watery undercurrent of noise. The dead thing that had been coursing around finally surged and spun itself into a mass of gauzy material like floating cloth. It enveloped Tess who gasped, dropping the book to her feet with a thump. Her arms fell to her sides and her head hung low. She stood still, yet was no longer there.

But something else was.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a visitor concludes a contract.

It looked like a bad dream to Dante and he knew too much about bad dreams.

As the dead thing settled over Tess, Dante could just barely see her form under its gauzy wrappings, like diaphanous curtains draped around her, twisting into shape. The tangled trail of black hair that drooped along its back, down the sides of its face was the first part of the wraith to be seen clearly, a sharp contrast to the pale robes. It towered in height over Tess, an impressive figure in the voluminous robes, strikingly similar to those of the Ragged Lady's, struck mute by the visitant's presence.

The woman finally raised her head and Dante flinched at the sight of her face; she was pale with a narrow, pointed face traced with bruise-like runes, running vertically from her forehead, over her eyes and down to the chin. Any beauty she possessed had been robbed from her by time and death. All that was left was a striking, bitter expression with piercing green eyes startlingly like Tess’. The woman swept the hall with her gaze silently as everything seemed to bow to her: the powers raging around them stilled and hung in the air like gossamer threads. She glanced at each participant in this tragedy in turn with a curious look and then, smiled; an angry, bitter, snake smile.

She took a slow, deliberate step forward, the circles reacting to her motions, pulsing a little more intensely under every soft footfall. She raised her hand languidly, covered in the same bruise-like marks as her face, inspecting it; though somewhat vague, her form was complete. Through the sheet of her existence, Tess moved blindly, completely lost to the wraith. The woman fixed them all with her cold gaze once more as Dante felt himself go numb. The world itself seemed to grind to an abrupt halt suspended on the precipice of a great shift and he felt it. It was an overwhelming feeling, even for his demonic side. His legs stopped cooperating, dropping him to his hands and knees as he fought against an insurmountable weight bearing down on him. His demonic nature rebelled, but the cold grip of whatever this woman did was too much, even for him.

He glanced up and saw Vergil grunt in indignation as the same force squashed him to the ground and the Ragged Lady screamed oaths as she was forced to her knees.

“That’s better,” the wraith spoke at last.

She had a hoarse, cracked voice – Tess’ own voice was barely a whisper beneath it. At one point or another, this woman had done an awful lot of screaming. She sounded like an old hag even though by appearance she can’t have been older than her thirties. This was a witch, undoubtedly, who had suffered before she died. He could feel it.  

The wraith looked right at him, bringing her finger to her lips in a gesture of silence. “Do not attempt to interrupt the ritual,” she warned. “I cannot promise that the world wouldn’t become undone. You are its pawns now and the game must be played to its end.”

For a fleeting moment, Dante thought she looked a bit… sad? But it was quickly overtaken yet again by a silent, cold anger.

Vergil grunted and succeeded in pushing himself up enough to face her properly. He looked furious.

“Who… are… you?!” he demanded. “This is not your place! Leave now.”

“Silence!” she spat back at him, whipping around to face him.

Her eyes widened in a furious expression. “You blindly tread into my domain child of Sparda! Here you are powerless, and you _will_ hold your tongue!”

Vergil fought against the weight while grasping at Yamato. Dante winced, seeing this kind of fury, brought on by desperation, on his brother’s face. It was plain that Vergil had invested an awful lot in this ritual working – and he would tolerate no obstacles.

Now the woman’s reaction was far more intense. She watched him and suddenly she was there, right in his face with her hand on his chest.

“You hold no sway over me, child,” she said gently. “You may have controlled the witch, but you have no power over the _dead_.”

An invisible blow of tremendous power flung Vergil away, crushing his back against the nearest wall, limbs paralyzed and a bewildered look on his face before he slumped to the ground, clutching his chest. Dante winced.

“You summoned me here, after all,” the woman told him coolly. “We are bound by the ritual. You will be released, but only when _I_ say so. No sooner, no later.”

Dante gulped a bit. Seeing her using Tess like that, the amount of power this ghostly woman had, enough to hurt his brother like that, fuelled his anger. He almost started to fight against the hold of this power himself, to try to get to her—

The woman whirled around to him, holding out her hand and pointing straight at him. “And you!” she laughed. “Do not think you are irrelevant to this, pretty fool. You can make no demands of me, either. The pawns cannot be relinquished until the game has expired.”

Dante would’ve liked to challenge her but he thought better of it. He’d do no good, flung against a wall like Vergil. For once, he’d hold his tongue. While the ghost held her, there was nothing he could do for Tess, for Vergil, for anyone. She seemed satisfied with his silence, turning away, toward the Ragged Lady at last.

“But here you are, my dear little orchestrator, puppeteer and schemer,” she chuckled. “How are you, _sister_?”

Dante looked up with a confused expression that Vergil sort of mimicked. Sister?

The Ragged Lady, in a heap on the ground still, glared up from under her hood with a piercing yellow gaze and her ravaged lips rolled back over sharp, yellowed teeth. “Ingrate,” she spat. “You meddlesome, worm-riddled carcass! You have played me false, Selene!! You are _DEAD_! And still you torment me!”

The wraith, now named, simply smiled on through her sister’s oaths. “ _I_ played you false, sister?” she said sweetly. “No. I merely bested you at your own game. You believed yourself the subtle manipulator since my curse stripped you of it all… but I knew everything.”

The Ragged Lady howled in indignation and reeled back, trying to escape but the circles held her fast.

“Do you recall your name, sister?” Selene asked sharply. “No, because you cast it away for power, and I… I gave you another so that you may not know the foul power you wished for. But I remember. I knew. You supposed my gift of Deep Sight any lesser than your own?”

Selene gestured widely at the circles behind her. “I knew you would seek out the Tome, centuries after I hid it away. The Movement of the World, before it even crossed your mind. You could not use it yourself; it would spell your doom. You needed a sullied bloodline and you chose mine. You found the fire-spawn changeling, when he was man enough you whispered in his ear and he abandoned his masters. You saw to it that a child was conceived of his seed, one that would suit your ends. You brought it here and found the perfect fool to hold its leash, a desperate mule that needed the ritual as much as you do, for the voice of his master will not cease until he either dies or returns to sop his master’s boots. You could not control your own pawn; there is too little of the human in you and the rite requires a clear mind, not a puppet. But he could if you twisted him round enough! _I. Knew. Everything!_ ”

Selene cackled; a low, syncopated laugh rising from the depths of a ruined throat in undulating tempo without control. She finally stopped abruptly with an indulgent sigh, staring down her sister again. “I knew it all. So I cheated. I cursed you to never know what I do, Sight or no Sight. I changed the ritual. I rewrote the Tome – _our_ Tome, made it so that whoever cast it brought me here, from the dead, to perform it for you, dear sister. I do not fear the rite’s price. For I am dead already.”

The Ragged Lady hissed and bellowed, spouting frightful curses and threats at her quietly composed sister, all the way through her elaboration. Dante ground his teeth, realizing they had _all_ been played fools by these two. This was never about Vergil or Tess, it was about these two crazed witches, a cat and mouse game that could have spanned centuries and gone on beyond the grave.

And he thought that he and Vergil were bad.

“And who sent me to my grave but you, my dear,” Selene concluded. “Now you need me to release you from the bonds that keep you in this pathetic state, neither dead nor living, neither human nor demon.”

The Ragged Lady scoffed loudly at that point. “And you must do so!” she hissed vehemently. “You have risen from death, what of it!? You are but a ghost, a shadow – a formless shell! You can’t even take a step outside of the circles and you depend upon the flesh of the witch you ride! And she can die just as easily as a snap of these fingers!”

She angrily reached out, wildly clawing hands, deformed with demonic power - she forced Selene to back away. “You have no power in this world bar what the ritual affords you. You _are_ bound to conduct it! Once you have and I have claimed my right, I will send you back to the maggots!”

“We both belong to the maggots, sister,” Selene replied coolly. “But you are right. I must fulfil the contract of this ritual. So let me do so and then… it shall be me and you. Again, for _eternity_.”

Dante tightened his fists. From the ghost’s angry ravings he understood that Vergil was indeed still shackled to Mundus. If this ritual would undo that, then so be it, he’d let it go through. But at the same time… the ghost had insinuated that the ritual might herald Tess’ doom. He started to fight mounting anxiety. Should be interfere? Should he stop it? He wanted his brother free of Mundus’ control but he didn’t want Tess to die. Would he really have to choose?

No, there must be something he could do, a loophole, an exploit he could use to save her too.

Selene sauntered to the centre of the circles again and brought her hands to her neck. She seemed uncomfortable and fingered the choker that was as visible on her neck as it had been on Tess’. Their forms had merged that much.

“Ah but this must go first,” she said and looked to Vergil. He just glared knives at her. “Hecate’s Girdle – how droll. Really, don’t bother,” she sighed.

She groped around her neck for a moment as Dante watched the choker around her neck twitch and tighten like a noose. She finally dug her fingers between the material and her skin, grunting as the choker tightened even more in panic, but she had seized it tightly with both hands. The choker now glistened with red iridescence and crackled with power. Vergil blurted a grunt as though someone had found an open wound on him and pressed their fingers in it.

She started to pull and uttered a grunt while Tess screamed; they seemed to separate briefly, Tess’ form gaining clarity as Selene’s blurred. Tess’ agonizing scream of pain was clearly hers rather than Selene’s, the tension of her body seemed to split them apart before the ghost regained control. Listening to her was agony. Dante heard his teeth creak dangerously as he tightened his jaw.

As the choker was torn from her neck, he winced at the hair-raising, fleshy sound that it made, and the river of blood that flowed down from her neck – _from Tess’ neck_. Selene held the choker in her hand like it was a dead rat and Dante felt his skin crawl to see chunks of skin still attached to it, dripping blood. Selene ignored the streaming blood and threw the choker away from her like it was so much garbage.

“Now we may begin in earnest,” she said coolly.

Selene turned to Vergil who by now had managed to pick himself up enough. “Come then, I will begin with you.”

She held her hand out to him and to Dante’s amazement, Vergil suddenly shot up to his feet, like a puppet on strings. He ground his teeth, his glower the fiercest Dante had seen cross Vergil's face in ages. He stiffly walked over to the circle and entered it, just for Selene to touch him warmly on the shoulder.

“You must kneel,” she warned. “And have no thoughts of taking these powers for your own. It will do you no good. Brace yourself, for this will be hard, child of Sparda.”

Sparks began to fly from the circles, flowing from one to the other, the power straining, trying to break loose and the room trembled again. Vergil arched his neck back in pain while grinding his teeth in a painful-looking grimace. His entire body stood tense and then faltered, bearing a huge weight on his shoulders. Selene stared at him serenely, her lips moving in silent invocation. The signs under Vergil’s feet were now bursting with energy and sparking – Vergil was resisting. Dante winced, feeling the unstable convergence of powers take hold and the room shudder, the walls grinding in effort to contain this energy.

Against all odds, Vergil dropped to a knee, shaking from pain. He stared at nothing, his eyes wide as sweat drenched his creased brow. One hand gripped his knee in frustration and he glared up at Selene, the energies from the signs beneath him rising in small flames to lick at him dangerously.

Selene turned and held her arms up in supplication, muttering invocations. The circles underfoot changed suddenly. They moved, turning round themselves and realigning like the cogs in a massive clockwork.

The very air in a specific spot just at the edge the circles started to shimmer and then, for lack of a better description, to _boil_. The Hell Gate burst like a lesion and opened into the vague reality of the Underworld beyond it. Dante was forcefully reminded of the words spoken by Regina’s revenant: A hole in the side of the world. Apt. The Gate hung there like a dead bird nailed to a wall but oddly nothing came forth. It waited.

Selene put her hand upon Vergil again and the circles went wild; the power converged on her in a hurricane of light and Dante felt the friction of air being pulled towards her. The room kept shaking and the walls began showing cracks; bits of debris started tumbling from them. Dante strained hard against the tethering binds that held him, unable to defeat them. Moving was like fighting against thick ooze while his arms and legs were bound to stones. This helplessness drove his demonic side to madness.

Selene began to quietly speak the words of an invocation as Vergil suddenly hunched over, grabbing his head. He gasped and shuddered in pain. He was in agony but unable or unwilling to unclamp his jaw and shout. He could only draw deep breaths through his teeth, choking out grunts. His form shifted repeatedly, between Nelo Angelo’s wretched form and his own in a dizzying war for control. Selene reached down and grasped something, a barely visible thread in the air around and through Vergil, and pulled. With a sudden rush and the scream of voices, a faint projection of Nelo Angelo was wrenched from Vergil’s form violently.

Vergil fell forward and sprawled onto the floor, twisting in agony, finally able to scream. The deathly paleness and the corrupted marks on his face started to fade like paper burning from the centre outwards. Selene turned, holding onto the vague form – the corruption itself – and with a decisive move, released it into the Gate, where it fell away rapidly, eaten by the void.

“This is done,” she said merrily. Then she suddenly turned and bent over Vergil. Her tone grew earnest and strangely, somewhat tender. “You are free, child. Do not squander it.”

Dante watched Vergil groan and roll over on his back, breathing deeply and his face slowly relaxing from the agonized grimace that it was fixed in. He groped about for Yamato and seized it in his hand tightly. Dante sensed it; Vergil’s strength was returning and even though he wasn’t getting up soon, Vergil must have felt it too. He was stretching and testing his power while Dante grunted, unable to decide how he felt. On one hand, Vergil was _free_. On the other… there was that feeling of enmity threatening to rise between them again.  

Neither could move yet.

Selene moved away from Vergil, advancing upon the Ragged Lady with a light, relentless step. Dante almost pitied the shrivelled shell of a human that was glimpsed through her decaying robes. She wasn’t a demon, not really, but neither was she human. She reminded him of the husks of humans who had become demons, after battling him and losing. Except she was living where at least they had the mercy of death.

“’Tis your turn, sister,” she said sweetly. “Do you not wish to ask me of my last hours?”

“Go to Hell,” the Ragged Lady spat, making Selene laugh. “Get on with it. I have no desire to speak with you. You _brought_ me to this state.”

The malevolence in their exchanged looks was nothing short of phenomenal.

“Yes. I will unbind thee from my curse and wash my hands of you, sister,” Selene sighed. “But you cannot accuse me of your failings. You brought this on yourself.”

The Ragged Lady laughed cruelly. “I made a choice,” she said. “You were too weak and scared. You took the offer when it suited you but when you had your revenge, you thought the power of demons ‘wicked’. You hypocrite. You gave in to the powers of demons before even I did.”

Dante raised an eyebrow. So, Tess’ bloodline had dealings with demons in the past. He didn’t think Tess had any idea or she wouldn’t have been so insulted when they were kids and he had suggested the same thing.

Selene just stared back at her sister coldly. “No,” she said dryly. “I will not deny it.”

The powers amassed in the room seemed to settle briefly, as if Selene herself had come to her senses and gained proper control over them. “I will not deny that I too was at the verge of your choice, sister,” she said. “Father had to be punished for his abominable actions, mother had to be avenged. We had to survive. So we fought father with his own weapons. But then we wanted too much.”

The Ragged Lady laughed sarcastically. “You always liked your little ‘holier than thou’ excuses…” she scoffed. “You were too _weak_ to accept this power!”

“I was strong enough to see what it would turn me into and resist. I ruined myself for the satisfaction of vengeance. I was mistaken. We both were,” Selene countered calmly.

“You talk pretty of resisting,” the Ragged Lady sneered. “I never asked you to drag me down with you. I was so close. At the cusp of the power I had earned. And then you come and curse my name away. You took my power; you gave me this wretched shell of a body and a false name to weigh me down for eternity when I could’ve been a queen. How did it feel to destroy your sister?”

Selene smiled in the face of these accusations. “As it felt for you to lash out at me in my hour of weakness. You handed me to the persecuting dogs when I was unable to resist,” she countered viciously. “Did you not laugh while I screamed and begged for mercy? Did you not gloat when they tired of my suffering and finally hung me, sweet sister?”

Another disdainful laugh. “You were perfectly entertaining. Oh save it. You’re _dead_. You’re nothing outside of this ritual. Get on with it.”

Selene smiled sinisterly. “At least I can still conduct a ritual even in this state. Had it been you, you would have trouble even speaking, you old, maggot-riddled wreck.”

A scoff escaped Dante at the sisterly banter.

Once more Selene raised her hands in supplication, the powers gathering yet again, forcing  the Ragged Lady to fall to the ground and writhe like a fish pulled out of the water and thrown carelessly on the dock. The room rumbled and to Dante’s concern, the Gate seemed to tear itself even larger, bulging outwards – or was it inwards? It defied all sense of physics and shape.

The Ragged Lady, prone on the ground, thrashed and screamed as tension gripped her form. She howled like a wounded animal under Selene’s eerily calm gaze. Swaths of tainted energy trickled off her like water and raced towards the Gate.

“Stand up, sister!” Selene commanded.

The Ragged Lady, still wracked by spasms, flung herself up, gasping and hiccupping for air. She hurled herself towards the Gate after the power that abandoned her, like a parched sufferer after water. Selene followed her calmly.

“I strip you of your curse, sister,” she said. “And I strip you of the false name. You are not the Ragged Lady. I bestow on you your rightful name and your rightful power… _Estelle_.”

The Ragged Lady choked out a shriek and Dante watched as her pale skin grew deeper with natural colour and the bony fingers and gaunt face filled in. The glow in her eyes faded to a natural green hue. Her body cracked and contorted back to a human, mortal nature.

She panted and heaved, on her knees in front of the Gate, still wrapped in the now pitiful dark robes. She was… well, human. Painfully ordinary, aged and unremarkable. Dante shivered; that awful sensation of the world having ground to a halt was fading. Time began moving again, slowly starting up from the suspended state thanks to the ritual, sound and wind flowing as if through syrup before resuming their natural tempo.

Selene stood over her. “Are you satisfied… Estelle?” she asked.

Estelle struggled to her feet, unsteady and dazed. Selene caught her and turned her around in an embrace. They weren’t twins but very similar.

“You… you…” she choked, incredulous.

“I kept my word, sister,” Selene said coldly. “I took the curse from you. You are now as you were once, a mortal witch. This is where my obligation to you _ends_.”

Comprehension lit Estelle’s eyes. “No. Sister, no! You cannot--!”

The Gate darkened abruptly and sunk into itself as Selene stood at its edge and shoved Estelle in. “Go, hag. This is what you wanted. Go with your masters. Live where no mortal may go, for however little you can. I will join you and end this madness. You and I will never see the human world again.”

Estelle vanished into the Gate with a terrible, bloodcurdling scream that was cut short too suddenly and Selene smiled in an angry, vindictive way. Dante winced. That was a nasty way to go. Human bodies aren’t built to survive in the Demon World, not even those of witches. Then he noticed what Selene was doing. She stood in front of the Gate, staring down into it with a look that for a moment seemed pained. Realization hit home and Dante began to struggle hard against the force pinning him down. The demon in him started to roar in anger.

“It is done,” Selene said. “Now I will close this Gate and this madness will be done.”

She laughed; a sad, hollow kind of laugh and leaned forward, allowing herself to fall.

“NO!” Dante bellowed and allowed his power to flare freely, his eyes gleaming with a liquid red power.

His form flickered heralding a wave of power that strained against the binds for a moment before exploding outwards as the demonic hunter burst the fetters holding him back. He rushed headlong for the Gate. What he was doing was madness. This Gate was out of control, it was growing bigger by the minute and unlike the Gates in Fortuna, had no physical body he could just destroy. It was bound to the person who opened it, only their death would ensure it closed. Killing Tess would’ve done it and Selene, being a ghost, would’ve ensured it was done right.

But Dante got to her first and seized her arm just before she would fall. He felt a surge of rogue energy shooting through him painfully and he even saw it crackling against his skin. The raw hellish energy coming off the Gate caused his arm to flash between his human form and demon form for just a split-second. He could feel his hand gripping Tess’ ice cold arm but also gripping the arm of something a lot more ancient…and not alive. He almost gasped. An amazing force seemed to be trying to rip her out of his grip. He gnashed his teeth while resisting, unable to discern whether it was Selene stubbornly fighting against him or the Gate’s power trying to draw them in.

He pulled back, barely managing to get his other arm around her waist, seeing his limb pass through the voluminous spectral robes, even though he could’ve sworn he felt the tattered cloth under his fingers. As he struggled to pull her back, Selene actually turned and looked at him. Up close he could see the gaunt, bony face and recognized eerily familiar features and eyes. Her eyes were sunken, her lips torn from self-mutilation. Every moment of her torture before the release of death was evident in her hard, merciless face. He could see Tess’ completely blank and dazed face faintly behind hers.

“Don’t interfere. I must end this, even at the cost of this girl’s life. This Gate cannot close without a sacrifice. You, of all people, should understand,” she said to him.

He was struck by how sad and yet determined she sounded.

“No,” he snapped. “I didn’t come all the way here to let ‘er die,” he grunted back, refusing to yield to the force trying to pry her away. “You screwed with us all enough, now leave her out of it!”

She laughed softly and smiled sadly. “You think that I did not predict your presence here, Dante?” she said to him gently. “I had hoped to end this cleanly, you know. No more death on account of my blood. No more suffering because of the Tome. An end to my mistakes. And yet, here you are… upsetting all my plans, as I knew you would.”

Her words served only to enrage him and he began glaring at her with red, furious eyes leaking power. “So, I’m another of your pawns then?”

She regarded him with something akin to pity. “No. But if you proceed, you must accept the consequences. Even my power of Deep Sight has limits. I do not know what your intervention will cause. But I do know… that they will be dire, Dante. Things will spiral out of your control. All your effort may be for nothing.”

He snarled silently at her. His frustration had peaked. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll clean up this mess of yours! Do your worst, just leave Tess out of it,” he growled.

Selene laughed and Dante finally felt the tension pulling Tess away from him go slack. He was able to pull her away from the edge as Selene’s form slid off Tess, much like a glove. She teetered on the edge of the Gate before falling into it with a last, maddening laugh, just as Tess let a drawn-out gasp and slumped forward against him. He hefted her into his arms and backed away from the Gate. All around him the circles on the floor were fading, breaking apart and extinguishing themselves like waves erasing writing in the sand. The Gate widened abruptly, into a jagged and uneven shape like a tear. The room shook as it started to pull everything in.

Backing away, he glanced down at Tess. She was in shock, probably the combination of such a long, aggressive possession and the sizeable wound around her neck: a jagged, uneven strip of skin had been ripped off where the choker had been. He wouldn’t tell how much of the red he saw was flesh or just drying blood. She breathed in short rasps while staring blankly but there was a glimmer of recognition when her eyes rolled around and caught his gaze.

He cast around him for a way out while she was helpless in his arms, catching sight of Vergil stirring. He had him to worry about, too. If he had to fight Vergil he wasn’t certain he could ensure her safety.

He was never happier to see Roy than now as the swirl of sand erupted next to him and revealed the old man, looking more dishevelled and worse off than before.

“Tess! I felt her presence!” Roy blurted then looked down at her. “Damn and blast! Hand her over, I have to tend to her—“

“You better!” Dante barked. “I didn’t go through all this just for her to die on me now!” Dante replied, then jabbed his thumb towards the Gate and Vergil. “I gotta take care of some family business!”

Roy gently picked her from Dante’s arms. “We’ve destroyed most of the smaller Gates, Nero and I, but it’s slow work and I don’t know if it helps! That Gate is completely out of control, you’ll have to figure out something. And Dante—“ he said with a cautionary tone. “That Gate isn’t normal! If something were to come through it now… there’s no telling what it could be. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Dante favoured Roy with a grim smile and the two parted ways, Roy carrying the stunned witch away in a haze of sand before vanishing as Dante turned towards Vergil. He stood straight and looked right at Dante. They stared each other down and Dante felt a strange joy and relief to see his brother free of Mundus’ influence. But then along came the anger – for starting this mess, for hurting Tess, for everything really – and the intense desire to bury his sword into Vergil’s chest again. The raging Gate tearing itself open further and the very ground shaking was hardly a blip to them.

“You look good, ‘bro’,” Dante said dryly.

Vergil regarded him with a small sneer. “No thanks to you,” he offered in the same tone.

Dante held out his arms. “You know, we can’t keep meeting like this. What say we go for drinks next time, huh? ‘Cuz right now, I’m _a little too upset_ for that.”

Vergil simply straightened his necktie and then nudged the Yamato out of its scabbard with his thumb. “Ever the prattling child,” he mused. “You have always been a victim of your own emotions.”

Dante narrowed his eyes. Was Vergil… mocking him? “And _you’ve_ stooped lower than ever. Getting others involved in our family problems? I thought you learned your lesson by now.” 

A chunk of wall suddenly crashed down near them, but neither paid any attention to the fact that the building was now rocking and groaning around them as the Gate crept ever larger.

“Necessity is the mother of many evils, Dante,” Vergil said stoically. He then gracefully lowered into a ready stance, hand on Yamato’s hilt.

Dante found that he’d unconsciously mimicked him.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned anything these last ten years. Maybe this time, I’ll kill _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If you're reading this as part of a completed work, I have something very important to tell you! 1. THANK YOU! 2. This is your mandatory rest stop. Drink some water, get up, stretch, then go to sleep and come back in the morning. It'll still be here ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein an unexpected visitor induces a climax to the proceedings.

The Gate ripping itself open further, spewing unstable amounts of demonic power and the ruin shaking from its very foundations was lost upon Dante. He and Vergil were busy with their age-old habit of combat. They covered the short distance between them in an explosive burst of speed that brought them face to face, swords drawn, within a span of two seconds. The blades clashed with a singing of steel and chorus of sparks. The initial jolt and sudden stop was followed by a flurry of rapid sword strikes and perfectly timed parries.

Previous experience had taught Dante to save reaching for his guns when an opening was present – Vergil’s reflexes being too good to be caught by bullets. It was uncanny but nothing seemed to have changed since their battles in Temen Ni Gru all those years ago. Vergil was regaining his strength; Dante could feel it in every blow they exchanged.

After several seconds of violent blows where neither could find or break an opening in each other’s defences, they parted after a particularly strong strike forced Dante to parry and then push Vergil away. More rubble tumbled down from the frail walls of the old fort and somewhere further off a loud crash of masonry heralded a collapse.

“So how’d you do it, Vergil?” Dante asked. “Just too stubborn to kick it or did something happen?”

Vergil responded with a barrage of blue summoned swords. “I don’t see why I should tell you,” he snapped. “Or are you upset that you failed to kill me?”

Dante expertly dodged every single sword hurtling at him even though Vergil’s barb nearly had him reeling. “I ain’t,” he growled. “You weren’t yourself, Vergil. I didn’t recognize you. And you _were_ actively trying to kill me.”

They moved in a slow semi-circle, facing each other and Vergil seemed to be struggling with his usual concentration and control. “We’re even, then,” Vergil said dryly. “You kill me and you hand over my sword to a pretender of our legacy—“

“You know who he is!” Dante barked.

A dozen summoned swords nearly took his head off. Vergil looked infuriated. “That _thing_ is nothing to me or to you!” he barked. “It’s nothing more but an insult! A pathetic plaything crafted by insignificant humans and incapable of little else beside a ridiculous immaturity rivalling even your own. And you hand _my_ heritage, my birth right over like some insignificant souvenir.”

Dante scowled, feeling vindicated that he didn’t let Nero get near Vergil. He hadn’t seen Vergil this angry in a very long time; in fact, this kind of emotion surging out of Vergil had caught him off guard. He didn’t think that Vergil had ever loathed something more intensely and if he were to catch Nero now he’d more than likely actually kill him.

They clashed again, moving through the unstable room in an erratic but strangely precise manner as their blades collided – flashes of steel, the gleam of summoned swords and the thunder of gunfire. Arcs of demonic energy and sonic booms punctuated breaks in their fight. In the background, the Gate loomed ever-widening, gaping like an open sore. Dante knew he had to deal with it but he was overtaken by his demonic side’s excitement for this vicious combat. Even his human side was torn by the dilemma of celebrating his brother’s recovery on one hand and the overwhelming, somewhat irrational, desire to break Vergil’s face on the other.

He did have the presence of mind to notice one thing: He got the impression that Vergil was sort of… getting back into his game. Vergil was free of Mundus’ influence, he was free of the corruption that had weakened him but apparently still needed to _adjust_ to it. It was almost delicious irony, craving power so desperately and yet almost having to grapple with it now that he had it. This state of affairs wouldn’t last long, judging by how aggressive their fight was becoming. Any moment now, Dante expected they’d start releasing their demonic powers and _really_ go for each other’s throats.

A loud groan like tortured metal from the Gate made Dante glance at it, just to see it widen like an opening maw—

The cutting sensation in his left arm brought him back into the fight as he moved. Dante growled at the feeling of ligaments, tendons and sinew being severed as Yamato carved through him by Vergil's lightning-fast strike.

He didn’t give Vergil a chance to relish his successful hit; he fired a charged shot straight into Vergil’s thigh, nearly at point-blank and was glad to hear a suppressed grunt of surprise from his twin. They broke apart again; neither of them cared for the ruin starting to come down around them and the floor caving in. Dante’s sudden lunge got past Vergil’s attempt at a counter and the stinger propelled them both backwards through the crumbling wall with the loud crack of breaking masonry as the floor caved in beneath them, with the remnants of the roof and walls following close behind.

The forceful attack sent them both into their demonic forms in midair, snarling at each other, and Vergil seized Dante’s neck. He swung them over and flung Dante away from him, cratering his twin into the wide courtyard of the ruin. He handed smoothly and sheathed his sword in preparation for another attack. The instantaneous shift had given Dante a chance to glimpse that Vergil’s demonic form was free of all influence of Nelo Angelo and the same old sleek and streamlined build, made for speed and precision. And he still maintained that infuriatingly cool and calculated expression.

Awe crossed his mind for an instant, at the efficiency of the wiccan spell; whatever Selene and Tess had done, it had worked only too well in ridding Vergil of Mundus’ influences.

Without warning, the indecisive weather got worse. It started to rain with fury, thunder rolling in dramatically as if the weather had developed a sense of theatrics. But the tempest overhead paled in comparison to the turmoil below it.

Dante pulled himself up as both their demonic forms faded. Behind them the ruins were disintegrating around the Gate, yawning ever larger, a stretching mass of shifting void that seemed to absorb even the light. Vergil drew Yamato again, swinging it in a single graceful motion, sending another cutting arc towards him. Dante dodged it easily, holding back a smirk as he countered with a volley of gunfire that forced Vergil to ricochet them away, stopping him from unleashing any more long range attacks while Dante closed in for another round of rapid swordplay.

Dante snarled, knowing that both were running on savage instincts rather than rational thought now and it was starting to show in the way they moved, faster and more savage. Every now and then one of them would get a hit in but it was never something that would’ve adequately tipped the scales in either’s favour. One or the other would suddenly trigger their demonic side and push the other to do the same just so they could hold their ground and not give in to retreat. It was a ferocious back and forth and Dante felt a sinister smirk spreading on his face. This was what he relished the most and he hadn’t felt this excited about a fight in many years – not since Nelo Angelo had fallen to his blade, he bitterly reminded himself. Vergil managed to maintain a stoic expression that that spoke volumes about how little he was actually affected by this bout. Yet there was something in his eyes that told Dante that he too was getting a twisted delight from this contest.

A stronger tremor with a deafening roar forced them to a pause, both twins bracing themselves for balance. They stood several feet away from each other, panting from effort and watched the Gate’s periphery contort into a series of large jagged tears in the very fabric of reality. Debris from the fallen walls started to get sucked into it.

“It is growing unstable,” Vergil observed dryly.

“Great…” Dante muttered. “And I’m guessing you aren’t going to stick around to clean this up.”

“This Gate is hardly my concern,” Vergil replied nonchalantly.

Dante grunted. “Of course not…”

He then had to dodge an attempt at a surprise attack from Vergil, summoned swords flying right past his head as he ducked. They were back to butting heads, pushing each other back and neither giving any indication of exhaustion or backing down. Vergil calmly stepped out of the way as Dante let loose a flurry of charged shots from his guns, the powered bullets barely missing his head as they passed by in blazes of red. He casually knocked a few away with a spinning motion of the Yamato and closed in as Dante put the guns away.

But before they could clash in another storm of blades, the Gate swelled abruptly and one of the cracks of its circumference bulged outwards, breaking up further and further. It came right between them, sending them reeling as the very air around the fissure boiled with energy, scorching cloth and skin alike. Dante glanced at the smoking patch of blackened skin on his arm and a similar one on Vergil’s leg and the equally puzzled look on Vergil’s face. That… shouldn’t really be happening.

They glanced at the rain-soaked ground and then at each other for a long moment. The tremors started again, more intense than before, and part of the ruined building collapsed further with a loud clamor, revealing the unstable Gate had grown in size and sucked in most of the debris in its radius. The ground was now breaking up under their feet, forcing them to back away. The Gate gave off so much demonic power now that they involuntarily started to flicker back and forth from their demonic forms momentarily.

“Well, that ain’t right,” Dante said flatly.

That’s when they both felt it. The shiver down their spines as an overly familiar, suffocating power crept through the Gate, making both backpedal instinctively, their eyes wide and inner demons snarling. Hate and fear warred in both of them. The Gate seemed to split suddenly and a roar of earth-shaking volume preceded the invasion.

Three glowing red eyes flashed by the Gate for a moment.

A massive stone arm burst out from the Gate, fingers stretched in a grasp as both Dante and Vergil cut it so close in dodging it that they saw up close that under the stone shell, through the cracks, there was nothing but a writhing mass of vague, seeping flesh like hundreds of arms melded together. The arm, visible all the way to a cracked shoulder, swept at the outside world, crushing any part of the ruin in its way to dust as Dante and Vergil moved out of its reach. The arm slammed onto the ground, sending a creeping corruption to seep through it slowly.

Mundus’ roar of triumph made the world tilt sideways, tossing like a paper boat in the sea. At least, that’s how it felt like until it extinguished itself into a snarl of anger. His arm swept the ground again, digging it up like so much sand.

 **“PATHETIC SCUM”** he boomed. **“I CAN SENSE YOU BOTH.”**

The stone shell surrounding Mundus’ arm could barely contain the writhing mass of foul flesh that was visible through the cracks, like open sores. Demonic miasma, thick and glistening like greasy smoke roiled off him in waves. Smaller… _things_ like snakes, centipedes and crawling vermin slithered all over the arm, diving in and out of the cracks.

“Well whaddaya know,” Dante said as soon as he recovered his composure. “The old bastard said he’d be back and here he is.”

“It would seem that the witch succeeded in opening the Gate into his realm but it cannot accommodate his power. The network must be disrupted,” Vergil observed flatly. “He’ll still try to force his way through.”

Dante glanced sideways at him. Vergil’s face was stoic as ever but he could sense his brother’s barely concealed rage; he wanted revenge.

“Well,” Dante said mirthfully. “We can’t have that, can we? Think of all the trouble we’ve both gone through, no thanks to him!”

Vergil narrowed his eyes and then returned Dante’s sideways glance. He looked so _annoyed_ for a brief moment there that Dante wanted to laugh. But then Vergil faced Mundus’ arm again, relaxing his stance, carefully sheathing Yamato in preparation.

“I suppose,” he said flatly, “that it’s only right we face him together this time.” 

Wordlessly, Dante mimicked him, sheathing Rebellion and flexing his neck in preparation. He wouldn’t hide that he felt a little bit giddy, both the demon and human sides of him. A little of that old brotherly camaraderie was in order, like good ol’ times. Like years ago in the bowels of Hell against a pathetic pretender.

 **“I WILL HAVE MY VENGEANCE!”** Mundus roared and swung his arm at them again. **“YOU _BOTH_ WILL YIELD TO ME!”**

He missed them but gouged the ground deeply, leaving it corrupted and full of demonic miasma. The Gate strained but so far only his arm had made it through, the fleshy mass beneath the stone twitching and flailing, straining for escape. They both struck at the arm, their blades cutting deep into the stone but with little effect as the great demon swung his arm, nearly tossing them like bugs.

The Gate twitched in a yawn as a horde of small demons poured out, from lowly Hell Prides to Abysses and Hell Vanguards, even some particularly distorted Marionettes.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Mundus?” Dante mocked, cutting down several Hell Prides with one slice. “Can’t squash us by yourself and you need your buddies?”

Vergil unceremoniously obliterated a large number of them with a series of vicious super-sonic cuts that hung in the air briefly before vanishing, leaving behind dismembered demons. Mundus’ hollow, mocking laugh was the only response they got. They were forced to clear most of the minions swarming them before attempting any assault on Mundus’ ever-moving arm, avoiding its sweeps and its blind attempts to squash them under its fist. Now and then it would release blasts of foul energy that hurt enormously if they connected – but fortunately after the first surprise, Dante and Vergil had little trouble evading them. The Gate quivered with every movement, spewing raw infernal power and more minions. The same power was having an effect on the twins, easing them into their demonic forms.

The trouble was trying to focus on Mundus because of the sheer number of the minions arriving through the Gate. Just when they had room to move and rain punishing blows upon Mundus, gradually breaking the stone shell surrounding his eldritch body, more minions would swarm, forcing them to thin them out. They could tear through them like wet paper, but it still consumed time – time that Mundus used to force his arm further through the Gate, tearing it larger and more unstable. Their blows would elicit guttural grunts from the demon lord and he flailed his arm in a slow, lumbering motion with the kick of a bomb.

Further tremors rocked the ground and Dante suspected not all of them were Mundus’ doing. The very earth here had taken heavy hits, evident by the gouged ground and huge craters and dents that the battle was leaving. As he watched, chunks of loose earth were sucked into the Gate. Mundus suddenly raised his arm high and slammed it down, releasing a wave of energy that covered the whole ground and left them with nowhere to run; it obliterated even many of the minions swarming the battleground. Dante grunted as his back hit the ground but he jumped right back up. Vergil’s reaction was slower, either because he had not yet fully recovered his strength… or Mundus’ presence was affecting him. Dante raced towards him and in a heartbeat he cut down the Hell Vanguard that attempted to exploit Vergil’s momentary lapse. His twin joined him instantly, and with motions too fast for the naked eye, cut them a little space among the swarming minions.

“We waste too much time on these wretches,” Vergil grunted.

“Hey you got any ideas, I’m all for ‘em,” Dante replied. “Ol’ Three-Eyes ain’t happy with us and he’s not quittin’. We’re still up to our necks in the little guys.”

The fire took the concern out of their hands, a brilliant trail of it blazing a violent path through the horde of minor demons. They were blasted out of the way with a joyous roar of fire, charred and shriveled by the conflagration. Tess’ incantation rang like a bell before she even got to them, her words carried on a surge of power so subtle that neither twin felt it until the ground under them was alight with a circle of power and Tess appeared in the middle of it in a gauze of smoke, finishing her incantation. The circle roared into life and every lesser demon in it was forcefully rent apart by the power of the exorcism. Even Mundus pulled his arm away from the immediate location of it for a moment.

Dante wasn’t sure whether he was glad she was alright, angry that she was sticking her nose in what he felt was their problem – again – or slightly giddy at her display of demon murdering prowess. Maybe all three. She looked haggard and her neck was wrapped in bandages, but she was still a sight for sore eyes.

“Nice of you to join us, Tess!” he scoffed, shooting down several minor demons. “Haven’t had enough close calls today, thought you’d break your hand punching out Mundus?”

“Fight now, bitch me later!” she snapped curtly. “Unless _you_ have some idea how to close that broken Gate, I don’t want to hear shit from either of you!” 

He cackled. Now here was the Tess he remembered! Angry, afraid of nothing, ready to burn everything in her way and taking absolutely no prisoners and certainly no bullshit.

She took charge of clearing out the minor demons, allowing Vergil and Dante more time and ease to focus on Mundus. She was clearly blowing steam because her fire was relentless, searing through the minor demons like a living, vicious beast. She kept her eye on Mundus too, using her teleporting skill to move out of the way of his arm and through the battlefield in a flash in an effort to clear as big an area as possible.

With an unspoken agreement, Dante and Vergil redoubled their efforts against their nemesis, focusing on the wrist. The stone shell around the limb cracked apart loudly, spewing miasma as it fell open. In a flash of his demonic form, Dante delivered a direct hit to the writhing flesh below with a powerful thrust of his blade. Foul blood spurted high and Mundus roared in what could only have been pain, his hand tensing and then being reduced to useless twitches, crackling with power all over. Vergil descended on the weakened limb with a ferocity the likes of which Dante had never seen in his brother. His demonic form surged with a hurricane of cuts, all of them hitting with loud meaty impacts and Mundus’ hand was shredded into a mass of flailing, writhing flesh, splitting apart like multiple grasping hands

 **“INSECTS!”** Mundus roared and swung his now seeping limb.

It crashed on the ground with an earth-shaking tremor, and the ruin all but collapsed entirely, falling inwards towards the Gate. Mundus’ other hand appeared at the edge of the Gate and the fingers curled around the circumference, grasping tight and starting to tear away while the maimed hand slammed against the other end to widen the ravaged Gate. It tore open further with a jagged edge, sucking in more of the ground around it and the fallen ruin. Minor demons spilled forth from the Gate, forcing the sons of Sparda back.

Even Vergil looked alarmed. He scowled at the sight and glanced at Dante. “The Gate is so beyond control that if it opens further, we’ll never be able to close it. It’ll just grow until the demon realm and the human realm simply collapse into each other.”

Dante grunted. “Great…”

“Push him back in!” Tess shouted at them while teleporting right behind them, her back to theirs, blasting away a mob of minor demons. “Push him back and I’ll close and seal the Gate!”

Both twins looked at her incredulously. Vergil in particular regarded her as if she was mad. “You don’t have the power to do such a thing,” he stated dryly.

“Yeah, you’d like that,” she snapped. “It isn’t a matter of _power_ , Vergil. I know _what_ to do and we’re _not_ going to sit here and debate this now.”

Dante wanted to laugh; Vergil seemed utterly discomposed by that verbal slap to the face from the small witch he’d ordered around not an hour earlier. Dante relished his irritated expression.

They cut through the minor demons, the errant demonic energy easing them into their demon forms and allowed them to easily avoid the sweep of energy that came from Mundus’ maimed arm as it swung for them. They narrowed onto the intact hand, shredding the fingers that were pulling at the very edge of the Gate, forcing them back and earning a bellow of anger from Mundus. He swung his maimed arm and swept them both away with loud thuds as they impacted on his limb.

Dante grit his teeth in irritation, his demonic form fading as he jumped back up with an easy swing of the legs, in time to see the trails of fire burning a complex system of circles and runes on the ruined ground under them. Indignation surging through him, he paused even as Vergil returned to the fray and turned to Tess. Yep, there she was, holding the singed and tattered Tome of Rites in her hand and preparing the same ritual as before. What was she thinking?!

“Tess are you outta your mind?” he barked. “This thing almost killed ya and you’re doing it again already?”

“It’s the only thing that’ll work! I know what to do now! Shut up and mind yourself!” she shouted back at him, face screwed up in concentration.

Dante grunted at her and turned in time to shoot an Abyss out of the sky as it leaped at him with its scythe poised for attack. Crazy woman! And he was crazy too for letting her go through with it – but when had he ever been able to dissuade her from whatever she set her mind to?

He rejoined Vergil and together they launched a perfectly coordinated attack on Mundus’ arm with such force that he retreated into the Gate as if the impact had knocked him backwards. They had to keep the pressure up, to keep him from reaching further out again. The ground was growing into foul mire, the corrupted ground saturating with demonic blood seeping through it, befouled by the miasma, only retreating from the circles of the ritual, burned away by the pulsing power.

When the circles under them started to resonate in time with Tess’ incantation as the ritual began anew, the Gate screamed like tortured metal and seized, its edges twitching and writhing like boiling blood. Dante felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up at the swelling power. It felt different than before – leaner and more immediate like it was stripped of needless weight, in a way, but still a little overwhelming. It made a strange kind of sense.

Mundus howled in rage, seizing the edge with his hand again and swiping the battlefield with his arm, slamming it down hard.

**“FOOLISH HUMAN WITCH! YOU THINK YOU CAN TURN THE WORLD TO YOUR WHIM?”**

Tess stood tall, holding the book in one hand and holding the other arm out, fingers splayed in a gesture of grasping. Her fingers and arm with trembling with effort and tension, trying to close around something that resisted tremendously. Her face was a mask of fierce concentration.

“Just you watch me…” Dante heard her mutter.  

Mundus roared back at her before being staggered by the double blow dealt by Vergil and Dante as they ducked under his arm and struck at the elbow, shattering the stone shell and severing much of the writhing flesh below. The Gate writhed and Mundus bellowed as the Gate seemed to be pulling him into itself slightly. Dodging yet another swing of the arm, Dante glanced back at Tess, hearing he words roll like thunder and the circles reacting, straining to move as Mundus resisted the closing of the Gate, using his hands to brace against it. She was shaking with effort and as he watched she dropped the book and used her free hand to sweep a large wave of fire around her, pushing back the minor demons.

She couldn’t last forever.

He turned as Mundus bellowed again and sent forth an unfocused wave of eldritch energy. Dante and Vergil swung their swords, catching two separate Hell Vanguards in their swings. They followed through, piling several other minions behind them and flung them right at the wave, neutralizing it and destroying the minions in one fell swoop. Mundus moved suddenly, bracing against the Gate closely and suddenly filling it with a giant stone face, broken apart and barely held together by the fleshy mass concealed beneath. Three flaming eyes on the face glared malevolently outwards.

He swept the field with his gaze and fixed it on Tess, still fighting against the Gate and under evident strain. Her stretched hand was bleeding, power crackling all over it. That was not good. Dante drew his guns but to his mild amazement, Vergil was quicker, assaulting Mundus’ three eyes with a barrage of summoned swords and a heavy-handed blow from Yamato.

“Better leave the little lady outta this, big guy!” Dante called, drawing his guns to follow through with it. “It’s us you want!”

Mundus bellowed deeply in rage as a surge of energy gathered in front of his eyes before unleashing a rain of giant needles of red energy. They spread too wide to dodge and despite their best efforts, Dante was brought to a knee by two pangs of insufferable pain, both in the chest as the needles hit him. Vergil was downed by three more and he seemed angrier than ever. Mundus stared them down and laughed – a deep, cruel mockery as he turned his gaze back to Tess, who was too busy trying to force the Gate closed to notice.

Dante forced himself to stand; he had to intervene somehow, before Mundus took out their one shot at getting that Gate closed.

**“PATHETIC WICCAN STRIPLING—“**

“Your face is pathetic! How ‘bout I fix that?”

Dante grinned, feeling the familiar power surge as Nero skid to a stop right behind Tess, winding back his demonic arm. He had an angry snarl on his face and the Devil Bringer’s spectral hand hurled forth, bright as the sun and swelling to a size not unlike the time Dante had seen the kid crush the false Savior’s head. The fingers were curled into a massive fist that cannoned into the face of the King of Hell with a thunderous cacophony of shattering stone and exploding energies. The force of the impact sent a powerful shockwave blasting backwards. Dante smiled, his coat billowing in the air blast that followed the shockwave, feeling absurdly proud of the punk. Vergil, predictably, had only a disdainful scowl on his face after getting up.

Mundus’ stone face was hurled back into the Gate but his hands remained gripped at the edges. In the moments it took him to reel from the blow, Tess had succeeded in shrinking the Gate, despite Mundus’ resistance and she made an angry, determined noise as she forced her hand a little more closed, her fingers bent and still shaking, blood dripping from between them.

Nero reeled backwards, grasping at his demonic hand with a cringe of pain on his face. The glow of the Devil Bringer had been reduced to a pale, ember-like and weak-willed light. That hit had taken a lot out of the kid. Still, it brought them so much closer to victory that Dante determined it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.

Mundus roared angrily and thrust his face near the quivering Gate again, the stone shell of his face falling apart. It revealed the same monstrous aspect Dante had last seen in the bowels of Mallet Island: A mass of writhing, fleshy hands and secreted among them three eldritch, naked eyeballs that looked out, expressionless and yet containing such unbridled hate.

He was confronted with the twins standing tall before him, ready for the next move – and then Dante turned to his twin.

“The kid’s right; makes me sick to look at him. Whaddaya say, the old joke?” he quipped.

Vergil narrowed his eyes at him. “For efficacy’s sake,” he snapped back. “I don’t care to foul my blade on this pathetic mass of flesh.”

Mundus bellowed an incoherent scream and another rain of needles of energy came raining down from his three eyes. They shattered harmlessly against the bright, dancing auras of Sparda’s sons as they flared their power to its fullest, in the full glory of their demonic forms. Each held one of Dante’s guns, crackles of power building along their arms, pointed right at Mundus’ true face. The ground under them cracked as the power built up to a fierce rumble.

**“NO!”**

Dante’s mouth spread in an angry grin that all fangs.

**_“Jackpot!”_ **

The people in the area around Amaro would speak for years of the awful darkness and nauseating sky that surrounded the old fortified outpost on the cliff above the quiet town. They would also speak of the maddening noises that were heard from it that fateful evening. But above all they would talk of the ruthless brilliant streak of red and blue that melded into a white-hot spear of light, cutting through the darkness like a scimitar. They would remember the force of the sonic boom that followed in its wake, churning the sea around the town and felling trees for several miles around.

Nobody would ever see the size and depth of the trench that the combined shot dug into the ground as it travelled into the Gate.

Mundus let loose a shrill, distorted bellow, his face vanishing from the Gate as if the shot had blasted him backwards so hard, he could not hold on to its edges anymore. His fingers slipped away from the jagged edges of the Gate and Dante and Vergil rushed forth. They drew their blades, slicing at the deformed hands, tearing them off the edges of the Gate.

Tess cried out in vindicated effort and forced her hand closed. The Gate trembled before collapsing in upon itself with a loud sparking of resonant energy that blew outwards erratically. It shrunk to a fourth of its previous size as the errant crackles jittered about it unpredictably. Large parts of the ground around it and loose debris from the collapsed fort shot towards it, sucked in by the receding energy, vanishing into its depths. Finally the Gate shut like the snapping mouth of a beast, leaving behind a vague rippling in the air that eventually faded.

Dante and Vergil’s demonic forms faded too and Dante drew a long breath, glancing back to see Tess crumble to her knees, hands on the ground and her shoulders heaving from the effort.

A grinding noise got his attention and he whipped his head around to catch the edge of the cliff where the fort had stood starting to tilt dangerously towards the sea. With a strange groan, the unstable cliff started to slide down into the sea and within a couple of minutes, nearly every chunk of ground that was affected by the ritual and the battle had tumbled into the sea below, leaving a large strange scar in the side of the cliff.

The rain pouring down earlier grew steadily weaker as the thunderclaps came less frequently. The storm wasn’t over yet, but it was drawing to a close.


	17. Chapter 17

_"There is a sacredness in tears; they are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love."_

_Washington Irving_

 

When the last bits of loose earth, stones and debris had tumbled down the cliff side and everything fell silent, Vergil and Dante were left staring at the gaping ridge left in the wake of the Gate and the ruin. Vergil said nothing; he seemed busy trying to process what had just occurred. There were a lot of great quips Dante thought of uttering then, about Mundus, about them, about the whole damn situation… but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they would all sound stale and hollow.

Instead he glanced back to see Nero motioning to trudge forward, likely to confront the two of them. That would probably be a bad idea; Dante doubted that the impressive display the kid had put on would’ve endeared him to Vergil at all.

Nero passed right by Tess with an angry step and suddenly she grabbed him by the edge of his coat. The kid stumbled to a stop and looked down at her. Dante heard nothing but saw her shake her head and tell him something sharply. Nero cringed, frowning at her reluctantly. For a moment he looked between them and her and then finally stooped to help her to her feet.

Satisfied that Tess had found a way to keep Nero busy and away from Vergil, he returned his attention to the unfinished business he had to attend to.

The sons of Sparda regarded each other for a long moment. Vergil silently tossed the gun back to Dante and he caught it without a word.

Slowly, both of them moved away from the cliff edge, eyes never moving from the other. Vergil’s sword hand twitched very faintly and Dante’s hands tightened around his guns. Dante felt his demonic nature starting to call for more conflict after this latest display of power, still riding high on the satisfaction of giving the King of Hell a headache that he wouldn’t soon forget.

But neither of them attacked, nor did they speak. They just stood there, staring each other down for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Dante couldn’t read Vergil’s expression beyond the stoic frown always attached to his face. The rain made Vergil’s hair stick against his forehead, instead of that frustratingly neat slicked back look that Dante always remembered him having. Now, with soaked hair, they looked about as identical as they could get.

There was something like hesitation in their respective expressions; an unwillingness to make the first move. Dante felt the sting of anger about everything that Vergil had caused this time around, the things he had set into motion in his effort to free himself.

But…

There was that insurmountable _but_ that stayed his hand and tongue. It stopped him from resuming the fight that had been put on hold earlier. He’d spent years trying to come to terms with the loss of his family and now out of the blue, almost, he had his brother back. And he hadn’t got a clue how to really feel. The demonic part of him wanted the scrap, the violence and the fight for supremacy, to prove he was the strongest. He felt confident that he’d probably prevail, if only because Vergil was still recovering from his weakened state and had been worn out in the fight against Mundus. Then again, so had he.

And yet, another part of him, smaller and usually overlooked, didn’t. It asked a question that Dante had spent years of his life avoiding.

What was the whole point of their fighting, after all?

Suddenly he relaxed his stance, returning his guns to their holsters and to his surprise, Vergil mimicked him. His sword hand relaxed and he just held Yamato by his side idly. They kept staring each other down but their expressions were blank. For a brief moment, Dante thought he saw _jadedness_ in Vergil’s features.

“So what now?” Dante asked, venturing the first word.

“What is it you expect?” Vergil scoffed quietly, slicking back his hair at last. “A pat on the back, congratulations for beating back Mundus? A word of thanks? An _apology_? Don’t waste my time. I owe you nothing.”

Dante scowled. Of course it would be foolish to expect Vergil to not be angry. Vergil had every right to be angry, between whatever horrors Mundus had inflicted on him and then basically being killed by his own brother. It was hard for Dante to hold on to the joy he felt, knowing that Vergil was free of Mundus influence. Vergil didn’t seem ready to mend fences yet and as much as he wanted to, Dante knew that he wasn’t ready either.

“What are ya going to do now?” he dared.

For a wild moment Dante was utterly prepared to offer Vergil an olive branch. Just put everything aside to help him, because Vergil wasn’t at fault here, he’d been manipulated yet again – even his behavior towards Tess, Dante was prepared to put that aside.

Vergil considered the question for a moment, his expression unchanging.

“I’m not certain,” he said tentatively.

Dante felt the blow of his statement as palpable as if it were a punch to the face. Just from the sound of it, Dante knew in his gut that he meant it. Whether that was bad or good was beyond him. It was one of the few times he had ever heard Vergil express _uncertainty_ and he got the impression that it disturbed his brother more than Vergil dared to let on. Trying to reach out to him would just be met with indifference if not anger, he just knew it. Vergil needed time.

He knew what to expect for his next question but he asked anyway: “What about the kid?”

Vergil’s scowl deepened. “He’s none of my concern. Do with him as you like. But if he crosses my path again I _will_ kill him.”

It amounted to more or less the usual regard Vergil showed for others and Dante knew he really couldn’t have expected anything else. Sure, Nero could take care of himself but he was still… part of the family, in a way.

Vergil then turned his back at him and Dante frowned. Vergil was clearly doing that on purpose, knowing Dante just wouldn’t stoop so low as to attack him like that. He was planning on leaving. Anything Dante might’ve said to talk him out of it would be breath wasted.

So Dante just folded his arms over his chest. “So you’re just gonna take off again,” he said, failing to take all the spite out of his tone.

He sounded like a sulking child.

Vergil merely glanced at him over his shoulder for a brief moment and it was enough to let Dante know that setting off into another scheme to gain power was the last thing on his brother’s mind.

Vergil turned away from him again. “If we meet again, it will be on _my_ terms, brother,” he said. “Do not attempt to follow me.”

Dante raised his hand and let it drop in a gesture of ‘fair enough’. “Works for me.”

He stood there, watching Vergil just walk away, with no dramatics or attempts to conceal himself from his brother’s gaze. Dante just knew that Vergil was somehow either doing him a courtesy, or rubbing it in his face. Every time that Dante had lost him Vergil had vanished abruptly – now he just chose to walk away in broad daylight. He’d probably come back to haunt him again someday, Dante had no doubt about that; whether because he still held a grudge or…

Well, Dante didn’t know for sure. But he knew that Vergil would come back, eventually.

For now, Dante chose to see it as a courtesy. Standing there, he watched until Vergil’s form finally melted into the shadows of the trees overlooking one of the paths leading away from the ruined cliff-side.

“Take care of yourself, Vergil,” he muttered.

He felt strange. Hurt, yet relieved. Angry and at the same time, not. Happy and yet miserable. He didn’t like this peculiar, confusing feeling, but it was better than what he had felt before. Something in him called it ‘right’. He might forgive Vergil eventually, but not now.

He finally looked away when Vergil vanished and inspected the damage left behind by the mayhem. It was pretty bad: Most of the cliff was missing. It could’ve been worse, he supposed.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned his attention to the other person involved in this mess. All he had to do was follow the last fading threads of power hanging in the air from her spell. Unlike demonic powers that whispered and tempted and reached out like sticky webs, wiccan energies were like the echo of a distant bell in the night; they didn’t tug, just beckoned.

He really wished that Nero had carried Tess off to safety but knowing her, she probably let him help her far enough away that she was no audience to his confrontation with Vergil; then promptly scared the kid away with a heavy-handed curse or other. Or maybe she’d knocked him out with a punch to the face.

She was like that.

He found her a little further down the path leading away from the former fort, sitting at the foot of an old statue; the personification of some science or art, lacking a head but still gripping onto her scroll in one hand and forcing her windswept robes into order with other. Tess sat on the remains of a stone bench, staring at the sheer cliff left behind by the collapse and the sea beyond it.

She didn’t seem to even notice the weak drizzle, the last whimper of the earlier rain. As he approached, he saw her hunch forward and rub her face with her hand, the other wrapped crudely in a bandage, then lean back and face the sky, as though she wanted the rain to cool her face. She knew he was approaching but would not give him her attention, not yet. She just dropped her hands to her lap and sighed visibly.

He noticed a tense stiffness in her posture, though she tried to hide it with a calm mask. That, more than anything, hurt, making him stop in his tracks, uncertain of what to do.

Tess had never treated him like a threat, _a demon,_ before. Then again, hadn't he given her enough reason to do so now?

She looked so tired. That sort of demeanor looked so foreign on her that it annoyed him. Dante made an incredibly absurd wish; that they could settle this unfinished business with a fight. They were uncomplicated, direct and getting hurt was par for the course. They’d just have a go at each other and get all the sticky, unpleasant feelings out.

It would solve nothing. They’d done enough fighting today.

But as always with Tess, he couldn’t keep his irritation at bay. Seeing her so deflated after witnessing her in her triumph just bugged him.

“Well, nice of you to wait for me, for once, Tess!” he scoffed as he came up to her. “Because I sure as hell am tired of chasing ya around all day.”

“Serves you right,” she fired back, bracing against the edge of the seat and looking down. “Are your family reunions always this intense? Because the sheer love is overwhelming.”

That drew a small scowl from him. Anyone else, Dante might’ve bitten their head off for that sort of impertinence about his family troubles. But Tess… well, she kind of had a right to be salty about it. She’d been dragged into it against her will, after all.

He grunted. “At least we _both_ walked away from it this time. Drags me all the way out here, gets me involved in his schemes and then takes off into the sunset,” he said, not quite as jovially as he would’ve liked. He hated sounding disappointed.

She said something that he didn’t expect. “He wasn’t well.”

“I know,” he muttered. “At least that’s… sorted out. I think.” 

She still wouldn’t look at him, determined to keep her gaze on the horizon, even though it was naught but a wall of clouds hanging over the water. “Are you going to be alright, then?”

Dante hated it when people asked him that question. It was so pointless and none of their business. He hated the tone of concern, whether genuine or faked. It would incite a snarky comeback because he didn’t want to give voice to how he was really feeling. It was too much of an easy way for him to lose his grip on his confidence and an easy path for pain to worm its way into him. But he felt too dejected for snark right now.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’ll be fine.”

He probably would be.

“But we’ve got some stuff to sort out too,” he said, pointing his finger at her accusingly. Right now, he much preferred a ripping good fight with her than thinking about Vergil and how he felt about him just up and leaving.  

“Wow,” she retorted, dripping with sarcasm. “All these years and you still haven’t learned about a thing called tact.”

He sulked at her. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Hey, after everything that’s happened, you don’t deserve any!”

He stomped over, plucked his sword from his back and planted it in the ground before dumping himself on the seat beside her – but not too close. He rubbed the back of his neck, huffing, frustrated and jaded.

This close, it was impossible to avoid the bandages around her neck, a scarf worn loose around them – and in fact, the moment he sat down, her first action was to tense and abruptly pull the scarf tighter around her neck to hide it. Even though he’d seen sights a million times worse, he resisted a shudder at the thought of her ripping the seal off her own neck, under the control of a ghost.

“Yeah, silly me; I only got dragged into a centuries old scheme that fucked all of us over,” she snapped. “You wanna blame somebody, blame that bitch in rags – or your goddamn brother. Pushy bastards, the both of you… fucking jerks.”

He couldn’t help the taunting chuckle at her frustration. She always spoke to him that way. “Wow, language. After everything that’s happened, I thought you’d learn your lesson and stop being such a pissy little hellcat. Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

“I’m not afraid of _you_ ,” she countered fearlessly, still not quite her old feisty self. There was a bitter, sharp edge to her tone now. “Not that you haven’t tried, but I _did_ have to live with your terror of a brother for over a year.”

His eyebrow twitched but that was all the reaction he allowed himself. He suddenly regretted not furnishing his brother with a few extra blows to the face before they parted ways.

But even that failed to make him feel more charitable towards her. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done,” he scoffed, trying to goad her into reacting. “How’d you even get stuck with him in the first place? Can’t have been Vergil’s charm. You were always so damn guarded, but I can absolutely believe that you knew who you were up against and you still stood up to him instead of doing the sensible thing and running.”

She finally turned and looked at him, angrily. “Come on, Dante, give me some credit,” she snapped. “You know him better than that. Think I had a choice? He got the drop on me and it was over before I knew it. Even in his condition I was no match for him. I tried to run. I tried to get away but he was right there, after me! Of course now I know the fucking Ragged Lady told him exactly what to do. It was either submit or get my throat slit.”

He balked a little at her outburst. Looks like he had touched a rather sensitive nerve there.

“Heh, you gave him a run for his money in the end,” he said, thinking of the expression on Vergil’s face when Selene’s wraith sent him flying. “But still dumb.”

She directed an angry little grunt at him. Yeah, she knew he was just goading her on to hear the whole story, because otherwise she would never tell him once she regained her composure.

“After the coven trapped Roy, I made a lot of mistakes. I wasted time looking for him and neglected my own safety. The coven had isolated me too and I played straight into the Ragged Lady’s hands. They let me exhaust myself and then Vergil just ambushed me. When I saw him I was… well, I thought of you and I just… froze.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Besides, you know Vergil. If he wants something done, he does it and consequences be damned. I’m surprised that I even survived that attack. I figured out quickly how rare that is, with him.”

Dante just huffed and folded his arms. It sounded just like Vergil indeed. Efficient to a fault, at any cost. Vergil had little else but contempt for humans but this kind of thing, the slavery and terrorizing… that wasn’t like Vergil. He’d have to truly accept that Vergil had been under duress the entire time, whether by the Ragged Lady or by Mundus – it didn’t matter which. 

“Did you have any idea that he was alive?” she asked him suddenly.

There was a small, accusing edge to that question, like part of her blamed him for not taking action. Dante cringed. He didn’t think Vergil would’ve told her anything of their feud, but Tess was Tess and she likely surmised more than either twin would like.

“No,” he admitted. “And don’t ask me whether I hoped he was. I saw that photo your freaky friend sent me and I thought I was looking at a ghost.”

“He asked me about you once or twice, you know,” she said, staring at the sea. “After one of his… attacks, when he went wild. He sat there, trying to look stoic and in control, and suddenly asked me about you. Small, innocuous things. He got angry when I had no answers.”

“Everything makes Vergil angry,” Dante muttered.

He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It was too fresh and too painful right now.

“It’s all done now. He’s gone for now, you’re free, we bumped off the Ragged Lady and even spanked Mundus. I’d call that a win,” he said. “Can we drop the subject of my goddamn brother, please?”

But no, she had to snort sarcastically. “Or what, you’ll _shoot_ me again?”

A growl escaped him and he shot her an incredulous look as it was the last thing he expected to hear. At the same time, Tess blinked and immediately looked away with a hunch of her shoulders that screamed of shame. He’d laugh at the absurdity of it if it wasn’t so sad: They always seemed to know _exactly_ what to say or do to precisely hurt each other. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less; he never did like taking responsibility for things he’d done… and she never let him forget her grievances with him.

“I know you couldn’t help yourself,” she said quietly. “I get it. When you and Vergil fight – it consumes you both. I was in the way and that’s that. What makes it sick is… part of me wanted you to do it. Put me out of my misery.”

“For the love of…” he muttered.

“I know, I’m melodramatic,” she grumbled.

Then she sat straight again, brought her hands up in a gesture of annoyance and let them drop to her sides. “But what pisses me off is that you bought into the bullshit that everyone fed you! Some demon hunter you are, you’re still shit at recognizing nuances. Seriously? You _bought_ that I suddenly turned around and happily batted for the enemy for kicks? Thanks for the vote of confidence!”

Dante felt his temper flaring to match hers. Oh, so _she_ felt insulted now? While insulting him, too? “You’re welcome, Tess!” he barked back in a similar tone. “ _So_ sorry that your attitude got too much for my trigger-finger! What the hell do I know about the mind-controlling bullshit you witches think up?!”

“You should know better!” she shouted. “You should know _me_ better than to assume that I would just go off and fight you out of my own free will! Or do you buy into the whole ‘never trust witches’ thing now too?!”

“I don’t know, maybe I do! I’m not the one with the goddamn radar here! And it’s been fifteen years, Tess! People change! I’ve seen people do far worse in this business when they get mixed with demons! Maybe you just gave in--”

She slapped him.

As soon as his head whipped back towards her after the impact, he glared and would’ve let her have it but… she cracked right in front of him.

Her head dropped and she squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lips tightly together. She looked utterly defeated by what he had said. She shuddered and covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stop a sob as her shoulders trembled. He could see it, years of bottled up feeling finally bearing down on her and she had the freedom to let them flood her. There was no stopping this.

“You bastard… after all this shit… after all that’s happened… what you’ve done… you tell me to my face…”

“Oh come on,” he said, turning his head up to the sky.

He frowned at the drizzle that just didn’t want to end. Draping his arm across her shoulders, he tugged her against him, redoubling the effort as she resisted initially, trying to shrug off his arm. He felt like the scruffy teenager of over fifteen years ago when he had to watch her cry like this – except this time it was largely his fault.

At least she still trusted him enough to _let_ him see her crying.

Anything he could say slipped out of his mind. A life of relying on quips and snappy comebacks while burying his own complicated feelings had left him a little incapable of mustering anything worth saying now.

“C’mon, pull yourself together,” he managed, staring at nothing and just rubbing her shoulder with his hand.

Despite himself, a sort of tenderness found its way into his tone. He didn’t think himself a patient man but if she needed a moment to compose herself, to get back to a semblance of the person that he knew she really was… hell, he’d wait.

He opened his mouth to speak but then shut it, not sure how to express what he wanted to say. If he was a different person he’d keep his silence but he had to say _something_ – that’s just how he was.

“Listen. I’m sorry,” he muttered awkwardly. “About everything. I didn’t… You know I wouldn’t have shot you if it wasn’t in the middle of—“

“Don’t you think I know that? Just shut up for a moment…”

For once in his life, Dante obeyed a prompt to stop talking. This was her way of saying she forgave him, bizarre as it was. She stayed like that, with only her shivering shoulders indicating quiet sobs against his chest. Had she always been so small compared to him? She always seemed taller, able to stand toe to toe with him and get in his face.

At length, she felt able to sit straight again. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the rain masking her tears as it washed over them. She sniffled.

“I needed that,” she deadpanned. 

“The understatement of the century,” he countered. “You always do that, stupid, bottling things up and letting them eat at you. It makes you cranky.”

Despite his harsh admonition, he kept her against himself with one arm and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “There’s no need to cry anymore, _Twig_. It’s over.”

A sharp cackle escaped her and for a second there she looked like the teenager he knew. He hadn’t seen that smile in so long.

“Ah, that nickname. Still so stupid but… I missed it.”

He allowed a small, cheeky smile. “Doesn’t suit you all that much anymore, either. You’ve changed.”

Her voice softened. “You too.”

His chest still burned with irritation and anger, thanks to Vergil and the excitement and dread of facing Mundus again. Vergil had left him with a tangle of feelings that he disliked as much as he cherished. But a soothing sensation was starting to crawl through him now, perhaps not snuffing out the fire but at least coating the hurt in something comforting. Loss has many faces and he never could decide what was worse: The certainty of never expecting to see someone again, or the uncertainty of wondering if he ever would.

He pulled away slightly and retrieved a tiny object from his pocket. The black stone on the worn silver disk caught the weak light. “Yours, I believe,” he said, holding it out to her.

She stared at her old necklace, amazed. “Oh shit, you remembered,” she said in utter awe. “And you didn’t lose it!”

He gave her an incredulous look but the moment their eyes met he knew she was pulling his leg, due in no small part to her somewhat infectious smile, tired but earnest. She closed her fist around the necklace gently with a contented, small sigh before putting it on.

“Thank you.”

She had to unwrap her scarf to wear it and just as the necklace settled around her neck she jumped and shrugged defensively when he stopped her from putting the scarf on again. Boldly he gave the bandages a gentle tug to inspect her neck. It was half-healed already, no doubt Roy’s handiwork, but still raw, the edges of the wound puffy and the surface red and glistening with half-dry blood. Thankfully the wound itself was thinner and shallowed than he had initially assumed. She finally swatted his hands away and fixed her bandages, but could no longer meet his eyes.

“That’s… never going away, is it?” he asked, aware of how dumb a question it was.

She shook her head, wrapping the scarf around her neck but still didn’t dare look at him. “I don’t know. Someday it might. I’m… I’m not sure.”

“Did you feel all that?”

“I…I did. It was like a bad dream, I was half-conscious through all of it.” She looked… ashamed. “You saw for yourself. Selene was… crazy. I doubt she or her sister were ever of sound mind but what happened to them drove them both completely mad.”

“Yeah, I figured when she started talking. Didn’t give a rat’s ass if you died,” Dante growled. “Are you… you know, okay with what she said?”

Tess laughed bitterly. “That my entire existence is the end result of their centuries-old feud? That the Ragged Lady planned my birth just for this and then dragged you two into it? I wish I could say that I don’t care but the truth is… I don’t know if I do,” she said, covering her face with her hands and shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do when it does sink in.”

“That’s bullshit, Twig, and you know it,” he fired back. “You told me about your old man and you never gave a shit about it then.”

“And that hasn’t changed,” she admitted. “It’s just… I’ve had to come to terms with… a lot of things lately.”

She stood up at last, pulling her coat tighter around her, while tucking some hair behind her ear. Dante folded his arms and stared at her, frowning. He never expected that they could just go back to the way things used to be between them but he was now starting to suspect that there were a few changes in his old friend that were more serious than just growing up.

“You asked me once if my family were ‘the good guys’. I told you that we weren’t evil. I was wrong,” she said. “We’re _witches_. We’ve all killed, deceived and ruined others just to survive. We didn’t need to meddle with demons to be monsters.”

Dante opened his mouth to give her a piece of mind over that bullshit but she stopped him, holding up her hand and shaking her head.

“Wait, I know what you want to say, but let me finish. I’m not telling you this because I want to make excuses, and after all that’s happened you deserve to know. Dante, I’ve done some honestly awful things since we parted ways and not just as Vergil’s errand girl. I have to live with all of that. I don’t want you to think that I’m completely innocent.”

“Good, because I don’t give a crap,” he snapped, standing up and picking up his sword. “As if I’m saint material. Roy told me about the coven and that hag, Regina, and I met her cronies, not to mention Ricardo. So from where I’m standing, they all had it coming. You or them, Twig, and to be perfectly honest, I’m glad it was _you_ that made it out. I don’t care how. And I don’t want to hear about what Vergil made you do – that’s all on him. Not you.”

He returned his sword to his back with a very final gesture, declaring the topic resolved.

She stared up at him for a long moment, as if she couldn’t quite decide whether she was pleased or not but in the end she closed her eyes and breathed out. “Glad you feel that way because I have to live it and the last thing I need is you acting weird about it.”

“Damn right you can. Tough as nails, that’s what I always liked about you. Missed it, along with all the death glares,” Dante smirked.

She chuckled then wiped her face on her sleeve. “Oh I’m sure you’ll give me more reasons for those again. I’m so tired, though. I just want to go home… except I don’t really think I have one anymore. I have to figure out what to do.”

“Figure out what?” he protested, then poked her chest with his finger and then his own with his thumb. “ _You_ ’re coming with me, obviously. There’s jack all left for you here and I sure as heck am sick of the place.”

Whatever he expected that gesture to produce, it wasn’t what she did. She stepped up to him, then buried her face in his chest and hugged him tightly.

“I missed you,” she muttered.

His first reaction was to tense up. But then he relaxed and then, awkwardly, reciprocated the hug. “Back at you,” he admitted quietly.

The sky was finally starting to clear, revealing the warmer colors of a late setting sun.

“Let’s get outta here, it’s starting to get cold and I’m too tired to deal with that,” she said and finally pulled away.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he agreed.

She motioned to turn away then stopped and hesitated. She quickly reached up, put her hand on his shoulder, stood on her toes and kissed his cheek without saying a word and then started down the path – a bit too quickly. He stood absolutely still right before his trademark wolfish grin made its appearance.

He feigned indignation. “What, that’s it, Twig? After all this, just a peck on the cheek?”

She returned the grin. “Were you expecting me to be all over you because you’re a big damn hero now? Nuh-huh. I’m not that easy, Romeo,” she teased and even stuck out her tongue at him. “Besides it’s… too soon. I don’t know. Let’s get out of here first and… well.”

She nearly ran off because her face was getting rosy, with him following after her leisurely. He had the stride advantage; he could catch up to her any time he wanted.

“How’d you get the little punk to clear off, by the way? I kept expecting him to hang around you just to get a punch in at me,” Dante mused.

“He wanted to,” she snorted. “I told him to go find Roy or I’d curse him. I think he wisely realized I meant it. I mean, I did just essentially slam the door shut in the face of the King of Hell. You must’ve really ticked him off today – is he always like that?”

“He’s an angry puppy. He bit my gun once,” Dante said flatly and got a cackle out of her.

They descended down the mountain path, through the ruined old town, just to the outskirts of Amaro. The city was dark in the waning light. Everyone had fled. They’d be back, certainly, but things for them would never be the same.

“Whadaya think’ll happen to the coven now?” he asked absently.

“I don’t know and to be honest? I don’t give a fuck,” she replied and Dante hooted quietly. “I burned the Tome of Rites when the Gate closed – I think I’m the only person who could – so now… they really have nothing. Good riddance, I’m outta here.”

“I’m gonna treasure that look on Vergil’s face when you said you were gonna seal that Gate,” Dante chuckled. “And then you up and did it. You’re crazy, Twig. Usin’ a deadly massive spell twice in less than an hour? Where did that come from?”

She preened a little and her nose crinkled cutely. “I had a lot of time on my hands to get better at what I do. Screw being the damsel, I’m the wickedest witch there is.”

“Remind me not to make you angry then,” he teased. “You’d probably curse me to death now.”

She grinned. “You know it.” Then she sighed. “You even found Roy. I thought I’d never see him again.”

Dante scoffed. “That old cat just doesn’t know when to be grateful. I cut him loose and he tries to bite my head off…”

“You deserved it,” she said wickedly.

Dante chuckled indulgently. “Ouch, such a bitch you are, Twig.”

“You love it,” she teased.

At the foot of the road going up the mountain they found Roy and Nero waiting for them. The young demon hunter had a faint scowl on his face and his arms were folded over his chest, but he seemed to be having a fairly amicable-looking conversation with Roy, who was seated on a low wall with his hands on his knees. Dante smirked. That would be about right; Roy had an almost unnatural way of handling angry young punks – like he’d handled Dante and Tess when they were teenagers. The familiar stood up at their approach and his first act was to grin at them.

“At last, you two have sorted things out, I take it? I don’t see any curses on Dante,” he said mirthfully.

“I give it a few days, old man,” Dante smirked, accepting the familiar’s laugh and friendly thump on the back with good grace.

“I’m just glad this mess is all over. We all cut it so stupidly close!” Roy groaned at last. Then he unexpectedly nudged Nero in a friendly way that, amazingly, the younger demon hunter didn’t seem to resent. “We shut the last two Gates just before things got real interesting up there and _still_ in time to watch this guy plant Mundus with absolutely the _best_ facer I’ve seen in centuries.”

“This guy packs a hell of a punch,” Nero said and jabbed a thumb at Roy. “Better than you, old man.”

Dante just shrugged at that, smirking. “Is that so?” he quipped then looked at Roy. “I seem to recall we had a little fun scheduled, old man, care to prove the kid right?” he joked.

Roy tutted at him with a smile. “Not before I have a stiff drink and a _very_ long vacation, thank you.”

Tess cackled before going up to Nero and giving him a hug that caught the kid by surprise. “Aw screw that, this is my knight in shining armor!” she said proudly and then took him by the arm. “I’d call him the real hero of the day. C’mere, Nero, I’m gonna show you my gratitude by giving you all the dirt I have on Dante.”

Nero’s cautious face melted into a wicked smile that he flashed to Dante. “In that case, I’m all ears,” he said and willingly walked off with her.

Dante’s face dropped and he held out his arms. “Hey! I just saved your pretty little ass, Twig! Is that how you’re gonna repay me?!”

Roy chuckled next to him and patted his back. “You honestly aren’t going to tell me you’ve forgotten how she is, are you?”

Dante smirked, following after them with Roy and resisting a wider smile at the sound of her laughter.

Because for now, at least, all was well.

 

THE END.


End file.
